He’s Marching now,
still marching now
Pants stained with piss
And bayonets fixed.
He’s Marching now
A British Soldier
From Bandon Town.
From fearsome fighter
To sad old bloke.
Those Mau Mau bastards
are at the door,
Not scared of colonials
Standing too for the evening news,
DMS boots now paper shoes.
No Ration packs, he gets to choose
Liquidised dinner laced with booze.
Came back home to drive a bus
raised four kids, made no fuss,
Never spoke of jungle fires,
Pulling nails, or necklace tyres.
But when the twilight touched his mind
it brought back what he’d left behind,
And his last stand was made alone
behind the lines in a British Care Home
One thought on “Care Home Grunt”
I wish I had the mental capacity to write a long poem about how this makes me feel. To get to the heart of the issue and dispense with the obstructive and intrusive anger. I should like to write a story from the beginning to the end of a life, capturing the essence of what makes a man become who and what he is, his rise and fall and decline. The beauty and sadness of something so full and yet finite..I fear I do not have a mind evolved enough to even get half way close to the emotions I would like to express in written form. It is so frustrating..