I cannot settle in Blighty.
Wounded or not I have changed.

My feelings are with my comrades,
platonic, a complex of simplicities.
We talk only together for no others understand
beyond the old lies and the gas attack of poetry.

My being is incomplete.
I lack the wounds
to disregard life
beyond my skin.

A small particle in a vast
universe, I accelerate
towards my collision
with my mortality.

A fragile loop, a wormhole,
a twisting bending journey,
picking up splintered experiences
through the pale lattice of my senses.

A repeatable experiment
with life, replicated throughout
generations of individuals,
trying to understand their collisions.

Who may not talk must fight,
engage the diplomacy of guns,
though having supped the devils' ***,
we look on our works and despair.

Ideas have become principles
and our givens must be taken.
Vile words replace understanding
or mitigate our unfound trust.

Perhaps one should contemplate
or denounce our loss of grace
displacing belicose thoughts.

He sang the people's songs
and faught the people's causes.
Others heard and blacked his name.
That was for him no badge of shame.

A five string banjo man,
folk singer, left winger,
he sang brave words in trying times,
striving to strengthen basic rights.

Pete Seeger died aged ninety-four
and left a heritage for man.
Asking us to Turn! Turn! Turn!
Urging us to overcome.

He lived next door but one to us
and chased me down the entry.
We went to school and played our tricks.
We worked at weaving - wenched and fished.

Listened to the deadly yarn
the friendly seargeant spun.
Signed us up, lined us up like bobbins
waiting for our places in the sun.

Willie shared a fage with me
before the whistle blew.
We had a packet left
so shared our memories too.

We walked straight as shuttles
through that valley of the Somme.
Six hundred fell with Willie
'neath the barrage from the ***.

The slaughter carried on.

The East Lancs filled our ranks
from outside Accrington.
Will sharing **** catch on?

You made it to the Top of the Pops.
What was it like to be idolized
- do you still savour the fame
- does it remain or fade?

'I am left with what I am,
needing to recognized myself
for what I am and always was.'
- But is nothing left of stardom?

'A star! A shooting star more like
that quickly falls to Earth
dazzling itself, burning away
its substance in the flames.'