It was a pocket sized museum,
But something quite small reduced me to tears.
It was quite, there was no one around,
No shouting, no banter, no tears.
There were men all around, some wearing medals,
These men though were frozen in time,
I cried unashamed before them all,
Yes I cried, tell me is that a crime?
All because of something quite small,
That my eyes fell upon at that time.
Models of men wearing Khaki,
Models of men in full kit.
Photographs of men, some smiling,
Beneath the horror of it.
A war that was said would end all wars,
Did they believe that at the time?
As they died or aged prematurely
Amidst the noise, and the stink and the slime!
Mud that rotted their Khaki,
Mud that rotted their feet,
Rain that found every corner,
Rain that in winter turned to sleet.
Barbed wire for their garlands at Christmas,
Christmas Carols rang out loud and clear,
“Silent night” for one night there was silence,
Soon enough to be replaced by fear.
Letters, some written to sweethearts,
With luck would make the trip home,
Letters, some received but unread,
For you can’t read a loved ones heartfelt message,
If for a day you lay in mud and are dead!
I looked at these men in Khaki,
I looked and saw men, some barely grown,
Leaving their Fathers and Mothers and Sweethearts,
To lay in mud, to lay dead, all alone.
But it was something quite small that made me cry,
It also was frozen in time,
A small tin of hand rolled cigarettes,
That had survived through the horror and slime!