I resist the urge to shiver, as these cold drops of rain fall, <br />Soaking me through on this damp November day, <br />As across the lane I hear the last ship leave the port. <br />The sight of those men in garb of war sailing slow from shore, <br />And I know that ne'er more shall I see their smiling faces lit, <br />That the flame of war shall e'er more extinguish the light of love. <br />While the whistle blows and the waves crash I cannot shudder off <br />This feeling of helpness, of loss, of regret. <br />And the words of the speaker, who earlier today had rallied so many- <br />Perhaps more than came to see off our boys- <br />With his chorus of 'Let english boys die in English wars' <br />And perhaps as the words echo in my head I alone remember, <br />I alone remember those overcast hours he had spoken this afternoon. <br />I alone recall with a silent shiver my own fleeting youth, <br />The dreams of glory in far off France as I boarded my own transport. <br />The fear in the training camps was dulled by the promise of women, <br />Of fair pay, of adventure both near and far. Perhaps, as well I suppose, <br />By the thought of seeing the savage Hun in dark garb of war. <br />But today is another day, the boys are fresh boys, <br />Lured by their own promises of excitement and reward. <br />So today, as the cold November rain seeps into my old coat, <br />I put one hand o'er my heart, one o'er my scars, <br />And I drag my ruined body from the port with a tear in my eye <br />And sorrow in my heart. I ne'er shall forget those boys who, <br />Like so many years before, sailed with the same optimism, <br />And who now lay 'neath the cold fields of France. <br />Once more I whisper that chorus, 'let English boys die in English wars' <br />And I limp back to my empty house.<br /><br />Ian Hammond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-november-memories/
