Old Man

Wintry sun silvers the mudflats. Too proud to turn his collar to the breeze, Supported by his faithful walking stick,
(High polished shoes and trousers neatly pressed)
He pulls the brim of his old bowler down
And gasps for breath.

His rattling chest’s a product of the mines
And mustard gas. He prays
The kiddies standing near will never know of war.
(Young Georgie Angel blown apart at Ypres,
And kindly Smithy, - shot for a coward when his mind ran mad).

As she passed, he held his Millie’s hand.
Who’ll hold his frail fingers now the tide ebbs fast?

© Gill Dunstan
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