You wake again in dawn’s reluctant light;

The neighbour’s wife and youngster have both fled.

He shivers as he clings hold of his gun

And, unrefreshed, falls on his lonely bed.

 

War, looking back, can be a lucky break.

Men who once cleaned up a factory floor,

When it is over, build a better life;

At present, it’s a terrifying chore

 

Of trembling hands, impending sense of doom.

Intruders sharpen blades and mass nearby,

The smoke of bombs and shells hangs in the air,

The fear of what’s to come makes mouths run dry.

 

The waiting can be viewed as breathing space;

We know this nightmare must come to an end.

Yet the uncertain, with its vice-like grasp,

Makes future prospects hard to apprehend.