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The deafening noise of the engines slows to a roar
as she turns towards us, cumbersome in her hugeness.
Dull in her grey.
She halts and the sound of screeching metal jars
us into reality – bringing us to attention -
back from our inward thoughts.
Tenderly and with honour, he is carried by his comrades
from the plane. He did not journey alone,
a companion guarded him on his final journey.
Silently – tears running down faces we watch
the guard of honour snap to attention – faces sombre.
At half mast the flags too snap in the breeze.
Killed under fire – a hero – a warrior, a fine soldier.
Empty words that bring no comfort at all
'If you must shoot – shoot to kill. This is your job boy'
He told me once in a rare moment alone we shared
before he left when 'Stay safe, be careful' was being said.
“Mum I am a trained soldier, and I am good at it”
No real surprise – he had a rifle and used it since the age of eight.
Country boys are used to life's cruel realities
living on the land in this harsh country.
Is another Mother weeping in another land for her boy?
Is another heart breaking into a million small slivers
that can never be glued back whole ever again?
No doubt! As it has been since time began.
When lessons are never learned or wars futility recognized
Mothers will always weep, for the one who is loved.
see some scribbles here - http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/