Poem about the Unknown Soldier buried at the Cenotaph. First draft. Comments welcome. |
A Soldier's Burial MCMXIV MCMXV MCMXVI MCMXVII MCMXVIII Blighty leave* came a little late for him; Took up from the dirt, the soil of where he died, Brought home with full salutes of guns - accompanied by the toppest brass, no less – Interred under the Cenotaph In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The queen comes by each year, to pay her respects, Who’d have thought when he joined with pals all that time ago, His family would be so proud. Placed in this most nameless of nameless graves, Far, far better than he had rights of expectation; Now he sleeps the long dreamless sleep of death, A blessing for his dreams would not be good. What’s that you say? Ask for his name, rank, number. He can’t tell you. Yet for one day, for those of his own time he is The sweetheart who’ll not lift the veil and kiss his bride; The comrade who’ll not join with pals in the local For a few jars and talking over times; The father who’ll not sit on children’s bed, tell them Of Hansel, Gretel, a gingerbread house and a wicked witch Named Kaiser Bill; The handsome son who gets underfoot in the kitchen, Snatching some edible before tea-time, followed by an Angry irritation. He is the husband who’ll not be there on a frosty night For holding onto, and his cold feet. He is missed, Though not unknown when known by everyone of us - And he will not come again. D I Harrison April 2014 Author’s note: ‘Blighty’ was a soldiers’ term meaning Britain. Blighty leave, then, was leave home. |