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The Return: Wootton Bassett
A Globemaster plane rumbles low
Over the town and rips apart
A scar in the bruised clouds
And, like rain, our grief floods out.
A church bell tolls, over the brow
Of the damp street the black hearses
Bearing vivid red, white and blue
Coffins, process at walking pace.
They pause at the War Memorial,
Fresh flowers beside Remembrance
Sunday poppy wreaths, a church
Bell tolls the hour - then silence
Regimental banners are lowered
And our heads bow, families, friends,
Veterans, soldiers and shoppers.
Then a muffled sobbing rends
The air; we are in that sobbing,
The fists over crumpled mouths,
The down-verted eyes as deep
As deep funnels, the drawn-in breaths.
We, like them, should not be here.
They were fit, hard and straight and
With a zest for life that took them
To the soft sands of Afghanistan.
We are in their fatigues and armour,
We feel the weight on our shoulders.
We drench ourselves in hot sweat
And battle's noise-shattering noise.
The procession travels on past
Brothers in arms, babies in arms,
Salutes and showers of roses,
Heroes free from further harm
Far from pretence and posturing
And policies that maim and kill,
Venturing through grateful applause
As polite as the rain falling still.
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