THE FIRING SQUAD

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Lost in time his mother’s words,

When but an arms-held boy,

Remembered sweet the lullabies,

That brought the infant joy.

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The years of boyhood, river stream,

Wherever youth will pause and dream,

To pen their true love’s sweet word verse,

As posies fall from sweetheart’s purse.

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A heartfelt murmur, blessed was she,

Whose future looked so well,

The heavens bright on fire that night,

As though the stars could tell.

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Could tell of what, my soldier man,

Whose children now will mourn.

A father, brother, mother’s son,

His life must end at dawn.

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A child’s lament, a soldier son,

A boy not yet a man?

And as the sacraments were read,

The words of prayer ran.

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They told of lullabies to tomb,

With shackled feet he faced his doom,

But yet the squad was pensive still,

For soldier boy a bitter pill.

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And in the squad that cold grey morn’,

One soldier God gave thanks,

That he might be the chosen one,

With rifle primed with blanks.

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Then one last word his end was dire,

Condemned to hear the order ‘Fire!’,

Till drop of arm, his tongue was still,

Condemned, the victim felt no chill,

Of final word on earth that night,

The stars were weeping tears of light.

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MICHAEL WALSH FORBIDDEN POETRY