Eighteen? I was at uni, teeing up for a degree.
Psychologically at sea. Nervous creature. Did fun feature?
Sometimes. And over-analysis. And fighting paralysis…
But not literally at sea, wading through mud, clinging to a bud.
What good there a ‘follow your dream’ line? Loses shine
Against machine gun mayhem and onset of oblivion.
Shivering with mates. No longer safe civilian.
Options narrowed to frantic fight – or frantic flight.
Extreme straits alchemised the best in those boys, No distractions or toys.
2019: we hang on words from the queen,
Our lives not so lean, we’re more prone to preen,
Yet we too face foes, more shapeless, less clear,
But worth we took a look underneath the veneer,
Indifference, complacency. Compassion? Still a vacancy,
In face of conflict and pain, climate crisis, grim train
Of events and laments that won’t disappear.
So why don’t I fight, while alive, while I’m here,
Take inspiration from the ‘no to self’ vocation,
Of Christ on the cross, of self-sacrifice the boss.
Plunge into the fray. And hold tight the sorrow.
Just as for our tomorrow – they gave their today.