1968
It was the year we just practised,
no bullets flew.
Our young bodies stayed whole
while Yanks, Vietnamese and
God knows who
maimed and murdered each other.
We just practised our deadly crafts.
We’d be busy soon enough
and would keep busy.
Very busy.
But meanwhile….a game of cards,
a beer
and tomorrow on the Brecon Beacons
without fear.
Practising.
1968
That precious solitary year
when Dad’s Army began
while the British military saw no action.
And just practised.
Oh please – more 1968’s.
Can we please have
at least one more 1968.
Greg Freeman
Sun 25th Nov 2012 23:36
The first six lines of this have a particularly good rhythm and sound, Dave. For me, the poem as a whole would be even more effective if it ended with the line "and the British military saw no action".