The Final Shot Is Fired Poem by David Harris

The moonlight danced across the waters
where the breeze made ripples there.
Nothing stirred the stillness
except the lonely hoot of an owl.
It was as if the place
had desolation in the air,
but all that was deceptive
as the earth trembles
of men marching somewhere.
As the night grew longer,
the marching stirred the silence
that had been there before.
Soon voices barking orders
had ears erect.
Slowly the resting animals
now began to flee.
Somehow they could sense
two predators were about to start a war.
Rifles were cocked and ready,
their muzzles extended from each bush.
They would not open fire
until their prey was near.
The volley of shots sent scores of birds
to flight into the early morning light.
Shots rang out from both sides,
each thinking they were winning
for the cause they were fighting for.
Neither realised
the war would never be over
so long as both sides carried a gun.
That could be a picture from any battlefield,
it’s only when they give up their weapons
and sit around a table and talk to one another
will wars ever end.
Until that day comes along
the death toll will rise
always at an alarming rate.
The ghosts of thousands
still roam across every battlefield,
never ever resting
until the final shot is fired.

8 February 2008