war is

 

 

War as Mr Johnson said
is a bastard -
I supposed he must know
he had left his arm
on a battlefield
and thought he was lucky -
perhaps he was -
he used to tell stories
to anyone who'd listen
how he'd volunteered

and lay sinking in mud

alongside the distorted faces

of the soon to be dead

and the corpses

that were left to rot

into the ground

I remember how
on special days
he wore bits of faded
shrinking uniform
and pinned his empty sleeve
like a medal
to his shoulder

twenty years later

I was amazed
when the man on one side of me
had his arm torn off
by an IRA bomb
leaving a look of disbelief
while on the other side of me
a bolt tore through
another mans face
and his head opened like
over ripe fruit
between them I stood untouched
except for the blood and brain
which ruined my jacket

but then as Mr Johnson said
war is a bastard

 

 

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