Not ideas about the war but the war itself
'Not ideas about the war but the war itself' by Roger Iredale
Dad hated those processions: strangulated distant bugles,
rifles butting Whitehall tarmac, doleful incantations from
the comfortable clergy resurrecting Albert, Chalky
and those other lads who ‘grew not old as we that are left
grow old’. And then the trumpet keening like a scrawny
seagull over downturned heads and surreptitious coughs.
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