Casualties of war


Godlike?  No.  Human?  Maybe.
Yet living above the bones of dead babies,
Who fell to their deaths from the top of the world;
The forgotten, the miscarried, the unfortunate boys and girls.


Now the babies lie with bullets;
Sanctity no longer exists.
Once upon a time, we were all for it,
Now we just wish this war would cease.


Fire!  Called the Sergeant as the Germans advanced.
Onward called the General, as the men became entrenched,
In the trenches and fell to their knees;
Some prayed to the lord above, others fell down silently.


Many days and many nights had come to pass
And still Old Blighty was under attack.
Churchill’s calls, spurred on a nation;
Whilst mothers and babies were simply seeking salvation.


The babies cried, as the explosions filled the skies;
The poor boys tardiness meant he had to find somewhere to hide,
And pray he wasn’t killed by the bombs or the bullets.
Just hoping not to die in a watery grave.


For all that’s left in the bottom of your rivers,
Is babies bones and war souvenirs


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

the painting was literal
figure hunched walking a dirt road in rain
its hues and tone spoke
mute but vividly
each brush stroke matched the images birthplace
in the authors crippled heart

each leaf a burnished gold of autumn
each a dying fragment of the withered tree
even the mans footprints in muddy soil
one can almost feel the squalid mud underfoot
his uniform and helmet named him a frenchmen
from the great war
his boots rendered with bloodstain

figure hunched walking dirt road in rain
a great dying had come to france that day
swords drawn they charged into deaths embrace
this man and his comrades in this awful place

the painting hangs in some museum
an awkward moment for the viewer
is he going into the storm of battle
or going home after
the tale is left untold
it is just the tale of a man on a road in the rain
a frenchmen in the world war
a lone figure in rain