The Fledgling

The dogs of war are out for blood in search of easy prey
in the trench a fledgling soldier wills his fear away
the looming threat of death embeds a knife of terror deep
into the fledgling soldier's heart who's trying not to weep

A second's thought of his dear mother flits across his mind
her peaceful, loving ways a distant dream too far behind
Will he make it home or even make it through this day?
Without an answer or a choice, he drives those thoughts away

They're closer now, he hears them crunching stone beneath their boots
the fledgling takes position, cocks his weapon, poised to shoot
stench of danger permeates, his nostrils widely flare
like his reddened eyes with drying tears no soul will share

Battle cries are deafening, his foe comes into sight
a pair of eyes materialise before him, wide in fright
too close to free a bullet so he draws a vicious knife
a second to decide who gets a second chance at life

Screaming he deploys the blade into another heart
piercing skin and bone all sense of reason blown apart
what choice could he make except to kill or else be killed?
Even if it means the blood of innocence is spilled

He kneels beside the body of his fallen enemy
gently closes eyelids, signs the cross, but doesn't see
a bayonet, so stealthy, from behind now makes its mark
he's plunging downward, senses fading, all is growing dark

There beside his victim lifeblood soaking hardened land
he reaches out for comfort from a cold and dying hand
Those still fighting do not see this joining of each son
who fought in life as enemies, in death becoming one

-00-

Miles across the ocean washed in silver by the moon
a grieving mother sits beside the window of his room
against her breast she holds a photograph of him at three
and from this day, to her, that is the age he'll always be