The other week I found some postcards , old pitches of Britain. Each pitchers tells a story they say. Well hears a story one pitcher tells.
A PICTURE POSTCARD (world war one)
The pitcher shows new , fresh volunteersIn their new fresh woolen uniforms , chafing flesh
That had never worn army uniforms before
Only not long before had worn only school uniforms
Just behind them walls with hoardings with patriotic slogans
They had not yet been trusted with Lee-Enfields
Some joked , if somewhat nervelessly
Feeling rather self conchies
The year on the pitcher card says 1915
Coming up behind them in a Rolls Royce , sits an elderly colonel
Mutton chops , hairy face , not quite a beard
Last served in India
Leading the volunteers from the rear
To day we'd call them teenagers , those volunteers
A year ago , in 1914 , crowd's would be standing both sides of the root
Girls , woman , chilldren giving them flowers , the woman , older girls kissing
The volunteers
Boys marching with them , evrey one cheering them on , sending them off to war
With a kiss , flowers , promise of romantic meetings when they got back from the Front from the girls
But of that by 1915 , to many had already had the telegram boy call with the news Their husband , son had been reported as killed in action
That was 1914 , this was 1915 , when the pitcher was taken
Most of those who had marched off to war
Many would not be marching back , dead , limbless , blinded , minds shot a way
State of minds to march no more
I wonder just how many of those lads in the pitcher got to live to make old bones?
Ken D Williams
The Dyslexic Wordsmith
Poetry by ken d williams
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Written on 2014-04-18 at 00:26
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Nabeela Altaf |
