Out stretching
Out reaching
The callused, bleeding hands
Of tightly gripping on.

The permantly furrowed brow,
Weathering a face which has seen too much.
The innocent eyes try,
But are clouded over.

His everyday grows like a plane
flying over
Dunkirk dawn
Guns drawn.

His green home
Of west is best
And his voice would flow
With a carefree blow

which has blown
to fragments.

His streets turned red
When in November they would tred
To remember
Those who bled
Now they are only spotted

Every year dearer
Washing away.