Grandad seldom spoke of war
or war's ways or the senseless
slaughter, but when he did it
was in a hushed voice, the words
handled carefully, as if they like
grenades could explode if handled
bad or carelessly. He talked of
mud and lice and cold and damp
and the slow slog to the front.
In hushed tones as if some secret
he was unfolding, he told of sounds
of shells, cries, blood and smells.
Did you **** the Bosch Granddad?
I asked as little boys do or may.
He looked at the fire where flames
tongued the coals and didn't say.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Grandad seldom spoke of war
or war's ways or the senseless
slaughter, but when he did it
was in a hushed voice, the words
handled carefully, as if they like
grenades could explode if handled
bad or carelessly. He talked of
mud and lice and cold and damp
and the slow slog to the front.
In hushed tones as if some secret
he was unfolding, he told of sounds
of shells, cries, blood and smells.
Did you **** the Bosch Granddad?
I asked as little boys do or may.
He looked at the fire where flames
tongued the coals and didn't say.
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