War Medal (Poetry)

I imagine who he might have been —
a young man fresh from college or
perhaps the younger brother in
a small town family business
what with his high ideals and loyalty to
                                                his country
almost too eager to take the King’s bright shilling

I picture him in France somewhere — entrenched
his khaki caked with foreign mud
and wonder how he coped with all that squalor
and fear sweeping like an epidemic
as he watched his comrades fall
what did he tell himself to keep him near to sane?

And in those uneasy lulls in the fighting
it’s likely he’d begin a letter home
not knowing if he would ever finish it
no Rupert Brooke, but poignant lines all the same
he penned in truth his version of the war
unauthorized — his postscript to an awful episode

Now — a hundred years later — his boxed and still-shiny medal
                                                                                        is for sale
it hangs protected behind glass in a cancer charity shop
a lump of metal attached to a faded ribbon
all that remains of his story
on offer for fifty pounds
to any interested stranger passing by