The maelstrom roars on,
in customary discretion,
tales of who lost and won,
makes underlying tension,
thus, treaties have been broken,
base needs, create a mess,
recycled battles woken,
it’s hard to find the blessed,
but, in reflective thinking,
by those who didn’t fight,
soldier saints are twinkling,
to make some sort of light,
hence, the children, of Ares,
become true gardeners,
from Land’s End to the prairies,
they disposed “dis-hearteners”,
as, in ardent protecting,
forgiveness is not for sale,
no sign of gun neglecting,
to make their purpose fail,
the land still soaks with blood,
see the poppies in the storm,
before we lie; still in mud,
make our reasons to be born,
so, with our filled lapels,
as two silent minutes play,
count our blessings well,
whilst toasting them who saved our day,
they’re watching us from the mess hall,
in a place, they call heaven,
hoping that we don’t appal,
on their day, eleven.