Gather your sticks and wit wild wind of men,
for youthful pastimes must now be traded,
your name will float on the breath of Amen,
through squalls of war, codes moral, degraded.
Quiet conflicts with self, grate on the heart,
eyes damp with clear tears, shed blindly for cause,
for all you once cherished, slowly departs,
cleansed from the soul or locked in dark drawers.
Small medals are given, pinned on board chest,
courage is summonsed by drawing your breath,
mothers speak sons’ names, to the wind the dead,
children are silent, they’re fearless of death.
War is exciting it draws us within,
a lonely cold place, the flag draped coffin.
© Paul Nichol. 2014