I was a soldier once
Now a bright white stone
I was a squaddie
Marching in step
Now I stand in line
Straight serried rank
I was a village lad
Laughing with the boys
Having a harvest beer
Now I stand forever
With my mates
No beer no harvest
Only the reaping of the dead
A generation cropped
Short before its bloom
Martin Swords
March 2014
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