Shot at Dawn.
Sad Alas! found wanting for a caring God,
in trenches there, cold, wet and drear
amid the mud drenched waring sod,
the slopes of death, hovered unknown to care,
Impotent artillery extinguished breath of many
amid the alarms of man mad wanton battle,
whose measured worth, but a copper penny,
'twas just but numbers, like slaughtered cattle,
cursive be, proud inventors of this sullen war,
whence, indiscriminate carnage tore limb from limb,
as comatose he stood amid the thunderous roar,
no longer could he let the rifle speak for him,
transfixed, stood with expressions vacant stare,
for one moment brief, the war had flown,
yet alone, like an unloved empty chair,
the flower of Spring ne'er again to own,
gone the turmoil 'twixt nations heart,
vanished the canvas strokes of waring art,
lost, the sweet rhetoric of its name,
of the 'Gentleman's war and its game,
one moment brief, just there and then
no war, nor artilleries fire of hell,
drank deep the vision of his own Eden,
yet a differing death, toll'd the waiting bell,
sweet homeland shires in vision seemed,
like days of yore he used to know,
where orchard blossoms softly gleamed,
like, flurries of Winter's first whiten'd snow,
there beside the beloved cottage door,
sweet-scented honeysuckle profusely hung,
yet by dawn, alas! he'll see, nor feel no more,
doom'd by unjust military law, to die so young,
charged, that from the battle did unjustly shrink,
cowardice charged, exampled as a sacrificial pawn,
a poisoned chalice, so unaware did drink,
defenceless, blindfold, alone, coldly shot at dawn,
shall we, with stoic heart e'er brave
make obsolete his flowerless unsung grave,
remembering the flower of youth so gave
of tender years, an underaged unknown English knave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sep 2015
About this poem:
Many of the atrocities of the first world war have faded into history,
this typical of the many extremely young men shot at dawn, who in general had suffered the effects of many a horrific battle, were, sick, cold, hungry tired and terrified, seeing their comrades bombed, gassed and cut to ribbons, many lied about their age to fight for King and country, found themselves frozen by fatigue and fear and were charged with cowardice, and within a day without legal representation found guilt and hastily shot at dawn by their comrades. Since I wrote this so many years ago, these brave young men have received a pardon and a memorial erected in their name.
Comments (15)
Kathy
To live here in France as I do, there are copious Military cemeteries honouring the wasted flower of youth, a constant reminder of the cruelty inflicted upon the young by the aged insensitive elite. Thanks for reading and your input. Phil.
Phil.
and it felt like a forgotten tape record,
and bittersweet the after taste it levels
for the present and future ones to read.
thank you for sharing
A fantastic piece of writing. I'm reminded very much of one of my favourite poets, Wilfred Owen. A lost generation no doubt and a war that changed the face of the world forever. Nicely done.
Phill::wine: