PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

As a child I journeyed often with him,

Over the well thumbed passes of the high Himalaya

To the liana tangled texts of the great jungles.

We were brothers in him, Kim, Mowgli and I



And I really do thank him for that!



But there was a problem for me, with his war poesy.

Where I found: a tub thumping opportunist,

A jingo-journo selling out, a propagandist,

And try as I might I could never overcome

My comfortable hindsight.



I would groan at the tired trotting out of the stale lines,

Worn out, by the never tiring tongues of old fools.

Who would never waste their time with Owen or Sassoon.



Now I know he just went with the flow.

The national tide wouldn't be denied.

Just look at the men it took.

I'll name-drop just one, Rupert Brooke.



When his tide brought the news of his "Boy Jack,"  

I finally found him there.

Stooped and shrunken with unkempt hair.

And clutched in his hand, the simple note

On which the King, with his rubber stamp, had wrote:

"I regret….."



Just two lines of his, lead me there,  

To stand by his side, at the foot of the stair.

They are:



"If any question why we died,  

Tell them because our fathers lied!"