After bloated Billy Bunters
Getting their revenge with paper flags
On maps of blood and death
For being bullied at school
Finished, sat back and belched out
A long cold hiss of hollow satisfaction.
Those they had not killed
Staggered home and found
Their wives dressed just like them
Or sporting brats with a foreign drawl.
Disrobing khaki shrouds with trembling fingers,
Clumsily pulling on oafish boots
To once more tread the mills
Or stamp the fields in anger
And firmly shoving nightmares
Tinged with survival's guilt
Smack-bang into the back rooms
Of ice-capped discplined minds
Locking the door on them
With thin-lipped finality.
The key safely deposited
In waistcoat pocket as while
He stoops to weed the veg patch
Eyes that have been soaked in death
Find no room left to view
Short-trousered life weaving
Between the bean-poles, laughing.
The hoe chips at the crust
Of soil unworked in his absence
Knowing it impossible to forget.
Then having closed his eyes
To join his comrades,
He leaves behind his silent footprints
Formed in a more ordered time.
Fading already into sepia
Along with the ghosts
Of non-negotiable hard work,
Patient industry, manners and respect
Falling away with the sunset,
Loudly ignored by all-knowing youth.