Welcome to my Blog. I mostly write for children but, to commemorate the centenary of WWI I thought I would share a poem. I was inspired to write this after watching a BBC1 Drama called The Village last year. Maybe for older children or adults, not my usual audience! Anyway if you like it, please share it.
I do respect and appreciate the many lives and the courage of the brave souls who fought in this gruelling war. A huge sacrifice and ordeal. I just wanted to look at how attitudes have changed in our understanding of the mental pressures war can inflict on soldiers. How those caught up in the horrors were unable to escape them.
Conscripts
Front
They
rallied them with brass parades,
The
women and the children waved,
For
England and our God be brave!
And
still they shot him.
Quaking,
still pubescent males,
From
white cliff shore to Northern Dales,
The
lurking Hun must not prevail,
And
still they shot him.
Uprooted
from family and farm,
Strewn
amongst the death and harm,
Steady
lad, o'er the top, be calm!
And
still they shot him.
Fear
made him duck, muddied stealth,
Elbow
to elbow, no class, no wealth,
Aged
and warped, trench-dampened health,
And
still they shot him
Writhing
limb torn off and mangled,
Bodies
twitch, from barbed wire dangles,
His
eye of horror glares all angles,
And
still they shot him.
On
leave, returned to home they craved,
Mind
relaxed, implodes depraved.
Their
comrades woken from their graves!
And
still they shot him.
He
ticked, they tocked. His mind unlocked,
The
shards and shells are not forgot.
Advance
you cowards! The sniper's watch.
And
still they shot him.
Shakes
racked each limb within his bed,
All
his school friends, broken, dead.
The
blast and roar ring in his head,
And
still they shot him.
No
longer fit, no longer strong,
No
question of what might be wrong,
Orders
issued, the evensong,
And
still they shot him.
The
papers signed “Return today.”
His
own men sent without delay
They
called “Deserter!” at their prey,
As
they shot him.
They
shot him on his Father's Farm,
Siblings,
surged, shrieked in alarm,
A
seeping lump in his mother's arms.
Once
they shot him.
Silence.
The
blood trails fade,
The
toot and march of home parade,
An
absent name from plaque they made,
Because
they shot him.
©
Kate Walker
