My Granddad was a lad when soldiers fought in Africa. Then friends dropped, caught in trenches; he got gassed. The English streets popped afterwards to shrapnel’s burning swell, and then… and then…
When I was old enough to know, the fighting lived next-door. Sinn Fein fought city dwellers; horses fell. Small children swore they’d battle on, till night and day and war turned all to hell.
The focus moves. They’re dying still; they were and always will. And death cries shrill and haunting on the hills forevermore.
God save us, save our soldiers, save the Queen. Say, can you see?