GrahamC Posted 30 July , 2009 Share Posted 30 July , 2009 LAST POST In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud… but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood run upwards from the slime into its wounds; see lines and lines of British boys rewind back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home- mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers not entering the story now to die and die and die. Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori. You walk away. You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet) like all your mates do too- Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert- and light a cigarette. There's coffee in the square, warm French bread and all those thousands dead are shaking dried mud from their hair and queuing up for home. Freshly alive, a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings. You lean against a wall, your several million lives still possible and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food. You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile. If poetry could truly write it backwards, Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GrahamC Posted 30 July , 2009 Author Share Posted 30 July , 2009 Sorry - didn't see Salfordian's post on 'Remembering' - but better twice than not at all. Rest in Peace, lads. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ATNOMIS Posted 30 July , 2009 Share Posted 30 July , 2009 RIP. Thank you both for my tomorrow. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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