The young hero

The smell of death is in the air
pervading every pore
yet in the guts of the young
gallant
brave
a burst of excitement grows
the moon reflects on the sea
lights the path
and scurrying like ants
our heroes clamber the cove for cover
from the pellets raining down
young heroes
fallen heroes
what destiny awaits
souvenirs
tags
an old embroidered handkerchief for my mum
sent in a calico bag
with a number
may he rest in peace
gallant and brave
young hero
all on her Majesty’s embossed paper
addressed to the mother-
whose pride wasn’t much
begged him to stay
he was far too young
a mere boy
not old enough to shave
to drink
to vote
to drive-
still a boy,
her boy-her child
she didn’t want him to go
her conscience
forever her pain.