He took the book down from its shelf,
The page was one-o-three,
The barrel organ in the street,
Its air was ‘What’s to be?’
The poet turned a page or two,
His eye fell on the scene,
Such mourning brought the land to grieve,
The cortège brought their Queen.
.
The poet turned another leaf,
He wept at what he saw;
The page was 1914,
And the story told of war.
Europe’s youth like wheat they fell,
Scythed and reaped for what,
That blood be turned to rich man’s gold,
And I’ll forget-them-not.
.
The poet thought to close the book,
He trembled then he sighed,
Perhaps he knew that times had changed,
That truth had also died.
Sad the bard resumed to read,
Where now his world would go;
He turned the page but knew at heart,
He’d see more tears flow.
.
The poet turned to time and place,
The barrel organ played,
Again the air, ‘What is to be?’
And once more mothers prayed;
The sheep are shorn, the wolves set free,
How soon the bullet flies,
Boys will sleep in homes of clay,
They’re buried under lies.
.
Michael Walsh Poetry
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