A moments silence amidst the victory.
will the hustings hush for remembrance?
for one young man of the war machine,
one cog consigned to the silent scrapheap,
where concrete ears are discreetly deaf
…to the grief of reunion tears.

Keeping his kit forever clean,
she brushes his bed with blossom.
Then passes his last parade to the post,
where her son is confined to a quiet barrack
…interred by the tools of his trade.
‘Bad show old man’, sobbed the censors telegram.
‘Best of British, but better luck in heaven’,
where he won’t need grenades to get through the gates
there’s no barbed wire behind those lines
only salvation snipes at his soul
and shocks her shell-hole of sorrow.