Somme Poem by Charlie F. Kane

This poem is only one part of 'Never Again? - An Anti-War Poem Cycle'

The deep black mud of the Somme
Was only highlighted
By the flash of light from a falling bomb,
Emphasising the blood of a former comrade.
Private Jones sat with them in the trenches,
Cradling a rifle as if holding a child.
Like the rest of ‘em,
He was waiting for the whistle to blow.
Then they would jump to attention,
And over the top,
In a vain effort
To move the dearly beloved
Field Marshall Haig’s
Drinks cabinet an inch closer
To Berlin.

When the whistle came,
The good ol’ boys
Of Company E,
Leapt over the top,
To drive headlong into their graves.
Private Jones ran fast as he could,
Running from the devil,
Who was only chasing him into Hell.
Private Jones last thoughts
Lay with his family in Wales.
He thought fondly of the Welsh countryside
In which he had a childhood he never forgot.
He thought of the smell of his dear old Mam’s
Cooking on a Sunday morning after church.

He smiled thinking of his life before the war,
And he kept on smiling until seconds later,
He was caught in a hail of bullets.
And Private Jones lay down
With the rest of the Sacrificial Lambs.

©Charlie F. Kane

28/4/06