ian westwood

(31.7.1948 / Sheppey, Kent, England)


The night is long,
The man is strong,
The women weep,
The children sleep.

The fire crackles
Its sparks fly high,
No sign of evil
In midnight sky.

But then, instead
A foot does tread,
On sintered ground,
With awesome sound.

Approaching slowly
A single tent
With gun grasped tightly
With death intent.

The tent-fold
Quickly cast aside,
Gunshots killing
All inside.

What sense has this
And other deeds,
Of simple soldiers
Bound by orders
To commit such attrocities.

The answer lies
In wealth and power,
The money-making
Of the faceless ones,
Who never appear
On the scene of war,
Yet pull the strings,
Just as before.

Submitted: Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Edited: Thursday, November 28, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Inspired by the state of the world at the present time and how simple soldiers are commanded to commit evil acts by their superiors, who themselves are simply the puppets of all those rich warmongers and weapon manufacturers.

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