Soldier Soldier

Great Granddad, soldier of the Dragoon Guards
Impeccably immaculate, imperial in his uniform
Young resolute, his features sit square
He looks every bit, the soldier there.

What was he thinking, as the photograph was snapped
His portrait for posterity, generations to admire
So serene he sits, his virility to inspire
War in France; saw many friends expire.

His portrait hangs, sedately in the hall
Dress uniform, a man’s man, tall
Riding breaches, white plumed hat and sword
Square chinned, he must have faced, the hoard.

What was the name of his mount
What dreadful sights, could each recount
None, now would know, futility, blow by blow
General’s, Brigadier’s history would show.

The war to end wars, homes fit for hero’s
Just empty words, count for zero
Patriotic, man of England’s finest youth
Many gave their lives, for muddied muddled truth.

The fields – now silent, the tears now spent
The love of dear ones, so costly, meant
Memories of heroic deeds now past
Now just hang as long as – Portraits last.


This entry was posted in History, Poetry, Politics, War and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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