On Some Dirt-Track Road (Poetry)

Unlike so many of his generation
my father rarely talked about the war —
his Royal Navy days and how he spent
his time away on far-off exotic shores.

Too young at the outbreak of hostilities
he had to wait with a young boy’s hot impatience
for age to take him past the barrier
his older brothers already doing their bit for King and Country.

There were some photographs — a few of him in uniform
scattered among the family weddings and holiday snaps
just one or two of comrades grinning in the sun
and ships at anchor in some foreign port.

One tale he told brought all the horror home
though not of men in battle. Yet his voice
cracked a little — let emotion through
the scene still vivid — haunting in allegory.

There’d been an accident on some dirt-track road —
Malaya maybe — recalling the geography is vague.
It involved a bullock and an overturned cart
and the animal lay dying as the troops drove past.

There was blood — so much blood soaking the ground
as it struggled weak and bellowing its pain
and all around fell silent — tortured by that awful sound.
That’s what my father remembered from the war.