YOUNG SONS <br />A mother takes down a photo <br />And she holds it to her breast <br />Just has she’d done the child it shows <br />The little boy she’d washed and dressed. <br />She remembers how his hair felt <br />His soft scent still fills her nose. <br />And one again she curses, <br />the path her young son chose. <br />With boyish smile, and happiness <br />he’d picked the shilling and the gun <br />she remembered still the fear and dread <br />when he told her what he’d done. <br />Yet she’d smiled and waved him off <br />as only a loving mother could <br />If God was good, her smiling son <br />would return as young son’s should. <br />but then fickle fate, it knows no God <br />it makes it’s judgments where it will <br />and IED’s they don’t discriminate <br />about who they should maim or kill. <br />So young son’s often come home <br />fulfilling all their mothers fears <br />not with happy smiles and laughter <br />But, draped in flags and mother’s tears.<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/young-sons/
