The Young Man

The Young Man

Bill’s life had been quite simple, a country lad was he,
aged twenty with face so fresh, footloose and fancy free.
The farm was all that Bill had known, the cows and fields so green,
no thoughts of travelling far and wide or any change of scene.

He got his call up papers to serve his sovereign King,
to take up arms against the foe, to do the noble thing.
With little preparation Bill left to fight in war,
he’d never seen a bayonet or what he had in store.

His mother wept quite openly but his father looked on proud,
they watched their son march out of sight and vanish from the crowd.
No time for sentimental, no time for mawkish thought,
the country needed every man, and every man was sought.

Arriving with his comrades to a place that looked like hell,
the sound of bombs exploding and that wretched, putrid smell.
A look of great despondence on faces caked in grime,
no chance to dwell or falter on what was borrowed time.

The trenches were a quagmire, the sludge was thick and deep,
each man was living on the edge, no time to even sleep.
Bill learned the stark realities, the fragility of life,
would he ever see his farm again, or have a loving wife?

Over the top he had to go towards oncoming fire,
wind and driving rain engulfed, as jagged as the wire.
Ripping at his sodden clothes, slashing, tearing pain,
could Bill survive the evil war, on desolate stark terrain?

As he laid among those fallen men he thought about his farm,
the cows that lowed from dawn to dusk, perfect, rustic charm.
His cold, contorted body twisted in a heap,
death was lurking in the wings for another soul to reap.

In the medics arm he gently wept, he had defeated death,
gratified and humbled now as he took each shallow breath.
For Bill the war was now complete, for him his time was done,
the killing fields of Passchendaele had spared this lucky son.

Lest We Forget

Teresa Harrison-Best

11^th November 2022