The Few

by | Aug 23, 2010 | Poetry | 0 comments

So peaceful by the Nissen hut, waiting for that fateful call,
‘Scramble, Scramble’, a swarm of Spits and Hurricanes all around.
Was the scheme for this sortie to defend our shores at Dover?
Or worse, cross foreign fields to fight the foe in his fatherland.
Please Lord; grant my safe return today, for I fear more than death
being buried in foreign soil, no loved ones to lay a wreath
This medalled hero, crack shot, fought and won all his daily wars
Squad’s sole survivor, shrugs at his physical and mental scars
Stooped now, though mind still razor-sharp, he stands before the sculpture
and recalls the courage of his comrades. So many, ‘The Few’.


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