THE FALKLAND CONFLICT 1982 REMEMBERED

In remebrance of all who gave their lives for their country.

Two poems which I wrote way back.

WE SHALL NOT FORGET OUR TOM – THE FALKLAND CONFLICT 1982

But we waited, our eyes

Like the lights of the weaving shed,

Silently watching the angry rise,

Black silhouettes, our heads

Among boulders bobbed blind

Through the wet, muddy bed,

And bursting, our minds

Saw the red of the Matador’s bull,

And the snorting began, and the pound

Of the charge, and the beat

Of our feet as we zapped and yelled,

And fired, and shelled, and hit -

Aaagghh! Was it Hell

We offered those beef-boys that night -

Our blood-curdling cry, was it Hell,

Like the Jehad, we fought

Till the mount was our own,

And the colours were bought

With the blood of our homespun

Pride. The bazooka man (who died,

My friend, my aide, was one

Whose northern fabric frayed:

Blown to bits by an Argy. Bomb)

Now lies in communal grave.

We shall not forget our Tom,

Mount Kent, Mount William, or Tumbledown,

Or the long slog there from

Plymouth sound, where our band

Played us out with imperial rock,

And Aunt Flo waved a flag, and a hand.

Copyright Jane Sharp

REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY
Chapped legs knocking,
Face icy red,
Remembering, remembering,
Remembering the dead,
Remembering what?
On that cold November day,
In the midst of dark statues
Shrouded in grey.
Like great looming tombs,
In Victorian guise,
Stiff to attention,
Tears in their eyes,
Two big bosomed ladies,
Coloured with honours,
Arms full of flowers,
And heads in fox-collars,
Stepped forward with grace
(how could they faulter)
Like virginal nuns
Approaching the altar.

All noise ceased: thought filled the skies;
A little girl prayed with tight-shut eyes.
The bugler played that familiar tune,
And the flag of the Legion was
Slowly brought down.
A motor car passed,
Again, and again,
Abide with me,
Amen,
Amen.

Copyright Jane Sharp

It has been a wonderfully warm, cosy afternoon by the fire, here in Crete.
Love Jane x