THE FIRING SQUAD

.

Lost in time, his mother’s words,

When but an arms-held boy,

Remembered sweet the lullabies,

That brought the infant joy.

.

The years of boyhood, river stream,

Wherever youth will pause and dream,

To breathe their true love’s sonnet, verse,

When posies fall from sweetheart’s purse.

.

A heartfelt murmur, blessed was she,

Whose future looked so well,

The heavens bright on fire that night,

As though the stars could tell.

.

Could tell of what, my soldier man,

Whose children now will mourn.

A father, brother, mother’s son,

His life will end at dawn.

.

A child’s lament, a soldier son,

A boy not yet a man?

And as the sacraments were read,

The words of prayer ran.

.

They told of lullaby to tomb,

The shuffled feet, he faced his doom,

But yet the squad was pensive, still,

For a soldier boy such a bitter pill.

.

And in the squad that cold grey morn’,

One boy who gave his thanks,

That he might be the chosen one,

With rifle primed with blanks.

.

Then one last word to then expire,

Condemned to hear the order ‘fire’,

It never came, for soldier friend,

Of another flag to bring his end,

.

Did drop his arm but tongue was still.

Condemned, the victim felt no chill,

Of final word on earth that night,

The stars were weeping tears of light.

.

MICHAEL WALSH POETRY is waiting to be discovered in his poetry collections: Forty Shades of Verse, A Sea Veneer of Liverpool and All I Ask is a Tall Ship. All and more are available from the Michael Walsh bookstore.