Flag-shaggers claim The Silence is their own:

one such, in ignorance, presumed my guilt,

and sneered: “he is alone”, but knew not why;

“He’s running free”, sez he, “why’s that allowed?”

 

I say to him: “Mate, you know bugger-all:

five comrades, blown to bits of blood and bone,

must keep their silence now, that of the grave;

the silence that I keep has been dear bought,

with post-traumatic stress-disordered brain.

I run because I must, in silence deep,

I run so I don’t break beneath the strain,

The only sound I make’s my rasping breath,

alone, straight past the cenotaph, through pain,

on each and every day, sun, hail or rain,

no cheery chatter now, no breath to spare;

with any luck, tonight I’ll get some sleep,

a healing rest, with no nightmares from hell”.  

 

Before my eyes, still, on that battlefield,

my comrades, blown to bits of blood and bone,

who keep their silence now, that of the grave;

whilst grief as shallow as a pool of piss,

now swills around the Pigeon’s piss-stone floor.

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 14th November 2024.