By Stuart McFarlane
I
Johnny died a soldier
on a strange and foreign shore.
He'll ne'er be any older,
but twenty forevermore.
He loved his country, it was true,
he would defend his native land;
did not question what he must do,
but still he did not understand.
He knew there always must be war,
that a soldier's duty is to die;
yet yearned to know a little more,
could not really help but wonder why.
A piece of shrapnel pierced his brain;
they buried him there, or thereabouts;
buried him in the mud and rain,
along with all his fears and doubts.
II
'We are sorry to inform,' the telegram ran.
He was now a part of official losses;
no longer to be remembered as a man
but as a cross among ten thousand crosses.
Or as a name engraved on a monument
in some rural village square,
commemorating those in the regiment
who fought and died 'over there'.
'Fell this day in a just cause,
his life was cruelly slain.'
And so, through time, in all wars
the words remain the same.
Yes, still the words remain the same,
perpetuate the same, old story.
Too soon do we forget the pain;
a soldier's death is wreathed in glory.
III
This is the lot of a soldier --
better he has no name or face,
kitbag thrown across his shoulder,
consigned to some faraway place.
A soldier marches many a mile;
yet when he finally dies,
who can recall the warmth of his smile
or the colour of his eyes?
Those will there be who cherish his name,
who will remember him every day…
Till only a photo in a frame,
as, one by one, they each pass away.
Yes, Johnny died a soldier
on a strange and foreign shore.
He'll ne'er be any older,
But twenty forevermore.
Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.
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