BETWEEN
Rested on a sack
of stock, the soldier
Laid his worn head down, against the
Biting filth and the cutting cold.
The uniform once
so proud and tall, lay
Shaken and cowering on the ground
With fresh wounds and old scars.
But, sleep befell
the soul within, and
No more was he cast to hell, now
He lay on the summer's grass with Father
In his hand. "My
boy, Tommy, my boy", he spoke
Love in his clean young ears. All was well, all was warm
On that day of childhood. "Tommy, my boy, Tommy", he
Spoke more clearly
still. Now unrested
And unsettlement in
The quaking of his Father's voice.
Clutched! Grabbed!
Expelled he was from
The summer's day. Glacial chill scratched his cheeks,
As his eyes whipped awake.
The screech penetrated
flesh and thoughts
And the earth and sand
Stabbed his skin. "Soldier!", lashed his commander.
A towering figure
of menace, "we're under attack,
Soldier, my boy.
Get up soldier, before another mortar hits".
And up he rose
from
His nest of soil, gun pointing
Towards a sun setting.
By Kate McAtackney
print version
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