War, Illustrated Copyright © Richard Whiting 2011

He holds his photographs;
They tremble in an uncertain grip;
The face of an aged youth;
Scarred by tragedy,
His trench-map of pain.

He throws them on the table
(As if his words were daggers
Made of paper in the rain)
Stills of the still;
Blood spilt in monochrome
British blood, German blood
(A grey area).

Some look and recoil;
Some do not look at all;
Some blame neurasthenia;

All walk away.

And how they walked away;
How they turned their gaze;
How they closed their minds;

How they closed your book.

Lying cold in Ors
You heard familiar cries;
The Virgin Soldiers of Malaya,
The Cyprus Campaign,
Korea, The Falklands,
Afghanistan.
The Singing will never be done.

I met Wilfred in Starbucks;
We took the tube into Hyde Park
And unfurled a banner
Dulce Et Decorum Est.
And despite your obvious stammer
And my star struck surprise
We read your words
With mounting anger
Until the police moved in.
We’d got as far as
The vile incurable sores
When the banner was burnt,
Your pictures ripped apart
And the microphones silenced.

If you could see the police car
They flung him in
My friend
You too, with high zest
Would protest.

(Ironically, he was taken away;
For disturbing the peace.)