Young Lions Young lions Leaping into war. Lips still wet from Mamma’s tit Pasty chests a-swell with patriotic fervour Hope and grit Loins afire with all the Freedom (and the girls!) they’re fighting for. Young lions Coming back as old. Time-Travellers – as though they’d merely turned a corner and begun to fold shrink and stiffen Arthritic, stricken, flinching from the cold. Twenty one, but clothed in the gravitas of middle-age Small boys swallowed by their fathers’ coats. Sheathed in silence, often sitting in the dark Unconscious of this constant nervous need to clear their throats. Like books excised of middle pages Mere epilogues. All rage spent, and all extremes long left behind The only violence in their dreams in stifled screams and sobs. (For snipers’ sights bear down on sound of any kind) While Mothers – still young – smile and pour the tea and wait ‘til they’re a-bed to softly weep: ‘Where is he? Where’s my little lad? He’s gone!’ Perhaps he sleeps in Mons, or in Verdun And God has sent this ghost back as a cruel jape Or as a warning, for the future’s sake:-- ‘Send the Gods of War a son – He may come back And he may walk But he will never wake.’
Posted on: Tue, 04 Mar 2014 12:00:53 +0000
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