The Lost Next Generation
I joined up at eighteen -Learn a trade
The sergeant said
But what actually made
Me make up my mind
Was the light
On my girlfriend's face
And her arm through mine, extra tight,
As she told her mates
That she was going to wed
A soldier
In his uniform of khaki and red.
We hadn't even discussed marriage
Before her loud-haling
To the gathereds
Just past the school railing
But I prided up
And marched from then on
Like a lion to the slaughter:
I had never heard of Lennon.
The preparation was as over-in-a-flash
As much as it had been out of my hands
And the honeymoon disappeared
With the hangovers on the sands
Of Ramsgate.
The hotel used to have a star
That had been stolen from the hotel next door,
And it had a bar,
With no barman:
Just the landlady with a permanent grin
Fuelled by her
Permanent gin.
The training soon came
And went
And I found myself
Inside a tent:
Writing a letter home,
That had nothing but an address and a Dear –
How could I explain
The fear
For what was to follow
My damaged return:
An unwelcome waiting
To a living urn.
In hospital,
I was given books to read
About other soldiers and their wars
To see how they had freed
Their useless bodies
Into a frame-of-mind
That gave them coping
From the unwittingly unkind.
No one had told me this before:
No warning –
Though,
I'd have greeted it with scorning
When I had my girl's face
Shining at me – willing
Me to take
The King's shilling.
She visited:
I could see her eyes
Screaming at her okaying mouth
For telling lies.
We had never spoken about children;
That had been too far away;
Something for another
Glorious day
That will now not happen:
Somewhere in the desert sand,
My parts were scattered,
Shattered by a stranger's command.
Her mother sent a letter
To explain how upset
And full
Of regret
Her daughter was about it:
That she thought it best
That I should be allowed to get on
And make the best
Of my new life -
And to forget about what was, when all said and done,
A rash decision
Taken by one too young.
The divorce was a blessing;
I no longer had to put a brave face
Onto her
Pulling-away embrace.
She will soon find
Someone who will never understand
The fleeting meaning
Of the sand.
And I am trying
To dance
In my head: to John Lennon
Giving peace a chance.
13:22, Tue. 06/05/2008.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 677 times
Written on 2008-05-28 at 13:59
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