That rainy day, when he returned,
Much wiser now, a lesson learned,
Fewer mates beside him, no more to roam,
Ashamed to say he’s coming home.

In the blink of an eye, three men lost,
Immeasurable seems the human cost,
The next of kin have been told,
In our minds the same, not growing old.

Four years past still feels the same,
Triggered maybe by the pouring rain,
Not wishing, but feeling guilty at what,
He’s doing now and they are not.

I miss them all, but Bob hurts most,
As he sits and eats his morning toast,
Some days are good, and some are bad,
Remembers all the laffs they had.

We were so fit, so tough, so fast, so strong,
Still can’t understand just what went wrong,
Orders? Equipment? Boils down to the same,
He aint meeting me in the Plough again.

Signed off and now has “gone outside”
Starting a fresh eyes open wide,
Feels things he has never felt before,
His life is no longer “The art of war”

Awkward at first, finding his feet,
Not good enough it seems to walk the beat,
Decides to help the young and misunderstood,
All in, both feet, would do more if he could.

Time has moved on, but the sting is still there,
Looks down at the grave, knowing his mates lying there,
Still pangs of guilt, not as often, but just as strong,
Cant believe, its eighteen years, it doesn’t seem that long.

Decisions made, a family new,
He knows it’s what he’s here to do,
Feeling safer now than ever before,
To his family, he will add, just one more.

She will grow up well, like his other girls will,
The nappies the feeds, going back through the mill,
A long time passed, and lessons learned.
He knows exactly, why he returned.