A Soldier's Burial

A Soldier's Burial
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Blighty leave* came a little late for him;
Took up from the dirt, the soil of where he died,
Brought home with full salutes of guns
- accompanied by the toppest brass, no less –
Interred under the Cenotaph
In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
The queen comes by each year, to pay her respects,
Who’d have thought when he joined with pals all that time ago,
His family would be so proud.

Placed in this most nameless of nameless graves,
Far, far better than he had rights of expectation;
Now he sleeps the long dreamless sleep of death,
A blessing for his dreams would not be good.
What’s that you say? Ask for his name, rank, number.
He can’t tell you.

Yet for one day, for those of his own time he is
The sweetheart who’ll not lift the veil and kiss his bride;
The comrade who’ll not join with pals in the local
For a few jars and talking over times;
The father who’ll not sit on children’s bed, tell them
Of Hansel, Gretel, a gingerbread house and a wicked witch
Named Kaiser Bill;
The handsome son who gets underfoot in the kitchen,
Snatching some edible before tea-time, followed by an
Angry irritation.
He is the husband who’ll not be there on a frosty night
For holding onto, and his cold feet. He is missed,
Though not unknown when known by everyone of us -
And he will not come again.

D I Harrison
April 2014

Author’s note: ‘Blighty’ was a soldiers’ term meaning Britain. Blighty leave, then, was leave home.