Granddad carried his silence
Like a cloak. His chair by the fireplace
Held his shadows, dark images
Of trenches, friends blown apart,
Decapitated, armless, legless,
Crowded around him as he sat
And stared. Some days in his garden
With you by his side, his comrades
Hid beyond the sun’s rays,
The cloud’s motion, the birdsong,
He’d speak in slow monosyllables
Of flower’s growth or colour or scent
Not caring at that moment why the guns
Were silent or where his friends all went.
HIS SILENCE.
HIS SILENCE.
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Re: HIS SILENCE.
I cared why guns were silent 'cause
to listen's what a soldier does;
I longed to hear to know if near
or far away my angel was.
to listen's what a soldier does;
I longed to hear to know if near
or far away my angel was.
"Every genuinely religious person is a heretic, and therefore a revolutionary" -- GBShaw
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