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Lest we Forget?

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He shuffles down the windswept street
His burden heavy on his back.
Ancient shoes, on ancient feet
His worldly goods within the sack.

Upon his head a ragged hat,
Flops and covers greying hair
His ancient face is lined with pain
Stained with tears of his despair.

He stops to rummage in the bin.
He seeks to ease his appetite.
What treasures will he find within?
Among the refuse we cast from sight.

A sandwich, missing just a bite.
Some chocolate milk, it smells O.K.
He quickly shoves them out of sight,
Then bows his head, shuffles on his way.

He sits and dreams upon the grass,
Of better days so long ago.
Remembering deeds of long years past,
He wonders how he came so low.

He fumbles for his half cigar
Breathing deep, he savours the smoke.
His eyes are fixed in a far away stare,
He does not see the passing folk.

He’d answered his country’s call to war
His youthful life he had set aside.
He’d given his best, and given more.
When he’d returned, he found they’d lied.

No Hero’s welcome, when he came home.
Upon his chest no medals hung.
His young brides heart, cold as the tomb.
No Sagas of his deeds were sung.

Abandoned to his dreams and fears,
Of comrades who had fought and died.
He wept at their memory, despairing tears.
And of how he'd been, just cast aside.

He wandered back towards the street
His coat pulled tight, against the cold.
He limped in pain on aching feet,
Cursing the day that he got old.

He sleeps within a cardboard box,
In an alleyway, not far from you
In ragged clothes and threadbare socks,
He jealously guards his pack and shoes

Tomorrow he’ll go back to the street,
You’ll see him and quickly look away
As he rummages to find a bite to eat
And dreams and weeps over better days.

Robin. A. Spicer © 2003-09-08