I Belong To The Battlefield. Poem by willow moon pearce

I had my family, my father so proud
Of me in uniform.

He treated me this one time as his equal,
Buying me a drink, chattering drunkenly
Of the Boche, until I slunk away, ashamed
Of his bile and venom.

On the day that telegram was delivered
What did he say?
Proud I did my bit, or proud that he was the father?

I was missing, and I stayed that way.
The telegram became yellowed and then
Just a curiosity.

I still lay in the flanders mud,
Laying in the same way as I fell
All those long years ago.

My cigarette box and pen,
All gifts for my hubris survive.

Green stained brass and copper ammunition
Surround me.
Together with rusted iron that killed me.

Friends and politicians moved on
From this horror to another.
Maybe one day a farmers plough
Will return me to the wind and sky.

I will then be only a curiosity,
Not 19 years and very frightened and lonely.
Another yellowed photograph in the scrapbook.