Bernard Franklin

Rookie (14 Aug- 1958 / Bath, Somerset)

The Cross - Poem by Bernard Franklin

The old man seems so sad today,
he’s always on his own.
As he shuffles up the road at an alpine pace,
rejected and alone.

His poor unkempt condition,
with a string around his mac,
some people just ignore him,
others seem to turn their back.

His fingernails are filthy,
there are holes in both his shoes,
in the hostel where he spends his time,
there are rules of don’ts and doo’s.

Unshaven now for ages,
and with his black teeth still on show,
the kids all call him ‘Bogey’,
he’s never felt so low.

From his family full rejection,
he’s not seen them in some time,
to treat this man so awfully,
really is a moral crime.

When finally bad health beats him,
on his deathbed he does lie,
so he closes his eyes for the last time,
and to the world a sad goodbye.

As they check his few possessions,
his bits and bobs and dross,
a small red box they come across,
inside……. the Victoria cross.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, August 12, 2010



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