The loving Son

by | Nov 9, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

‘There are no atheists in a foxhole…’

The desert nights could grow so cold.
By the River Helmand a prayer was said
Some water sprinkled on your head.
Though heart and soul you gave to Christ
You, too, would pay the soldier’s price.
Their happy smiles, an awkward wave
The barking dogs, the radio’s blaze…
Adjusted sights -the trigger pressed
You joined the Roll Call of the Dead.
By chance of fate, we all are blown
A loving son was coming home…
While the children, by the river played
Upon your grave fresh flowers were laid.

You were too worthy to have died
To be this gift of life denied.


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