Our fathers (some) returned, from trenches, deep
and muddy, spilled tales of raging guns, or how they
lost a buddy
A gas mask in the attic, a remnant of the war, shrapnel
in the park where the keeper wore a claw.
Bombsites were a playground for the children of the
day; the future was a daydream and mothers used to pray.
Tin hats found in cornfields, rusting bullets by the river,
an echo from a Messerschmitt, enough to make one quiver.
Willow smacking leather, again upon the green, tranquil
village setting, gentle country scene.
And now a Christian man, I like to spread the word,
wishing every warring nation, the peace of our good Lord.
Malcolm Duncan.
October 20th 2005
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Thanks Malcolm; just in time for Remembrance Day!!!
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