WHERE ARE THE BOYS


Where are the boys

The looms are still
silent are forge, factory and mill.
No ale is pulled
no crying infant by father lulled.
The piano is mute
unworn the Sunday best suit.

To breathe this air is to breathe sorrow
and the tears, behind doors, in the quiet
run like rapids, wetting worn photographs
that say there is no together, tomorrow.

Where are the boys

Gone across the cold water
gone from mother, wife and daughter
for war, as seed to sow,
from which the poppy will ever grow,
across the verdant field
to mark where youth to death did yield

They now lie under stark white stone
in strange earth that is not of England
in rows, neat and tidy above the ground
while beneath all are tatters and bone.

Where are the boys

In the town square
on the plaque over there,
that left behind tin
with his tobacco still within
and the flat cap
hung on the nail by the tap.

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