A Patch for Harry


The bullet whistled as it sliced through,

exclamations of delight,

at a second helping

 of Victoria Sponge.

 

Its copper casing rotated,

as it tore holes through letters,

written by lover’s

of the understatement.

 

It’s passing left ripples in air,

softened by the innocent shouts,

of those unaware

of the vastness of Space.

 

It cracked a cry of dawn chorus,

as it ricocheted off trees,

planted, by those,

who knew their place.

 

It tumbled a cartwheel,

across fields carved out,

by your grandfather’s,

grandfather’s plough.

 

It screamed as it flew over the mud

and the bodies

and the rats

and into Harry’s face.

 

And yet Harry lived on,

and on, and then he died.

And what,

shall we,

do now?

© 2012 Thomas Halvë

N.B. Whilst not written about him, this poem references Harry Patch, the last British survivor of World War One. Harry died in 2009.

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