(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
All rights reserved