The Last Letter Home Poem by Philip Bond

My feet smell
by the looks of them, also swell...

‘Tween my toes be blisters breaking into sores
not pleasant to see, puss oozes through the pores…

Shoes aren't much use
worn laceless and loose...

Still they’re better than just feet
shards of spent shrapnel shred feet into meat…

I write this unsure the censor allows, you to see
life here, surrounding, affecting me…

Tis night just now
as I write this to thou…

Dawn’s about to break
to herald the day, even another wake...

Ernie’s doing well
a great shot, each one marked with a dele…

Rigged a frame does he
able to shoot through a mirror to see…

Phil catches rats, they scamper the trench,
better than a cat is he, one rat with one fist clench...

They gas us two days ago
that is until the wind began to slow...

Still seven succumb
one a chum...

Three die that time
they say gas on the battlefield a crime…

Funny that, determining such death legality
yet machine gun bullets and bombs rain with glee...

Home by christmas I hear one say
yet wager none of my pay on that day…

Must end this now
corporal readies us for chow...

Over the top we go at dawn
full with bravado yet so forlorn...

I’ll write again tomorrow
on some paper I’ve yet to borrow...

Should the postman no more tomorrow deliver
worry not, don’t drown your liver...

Think of me as I be,
not wounded or maimed but free…

Give my love to our mother
tell her, I love her like no other…

And to you father, I tell you for sure
I am the soldier, the warrior and here for the tour