1918 by Tony Lewis Jones

I am younger than the century. A boy, you think,

But I am chained to a machine gun

Capable of ending a thousand lives

And this makes me a man.

 

There will be no withdrawl.

The officers have warned us:

Here, in our trenches, we fight or die

And no one is to cut me free.

 

In pity for my situation,

Don’t mistake me. I’m as frightened

As the newly wedded bank clerk we all tease

Who’s never known his wife; frightened

 

As the English, waiting to attack

When dawn reveals the cratered wasteground

Under my machine gun’s eye

Like, me, they’re chained to cirrcumstance;

 

The future doesn’t favour deals.

I have to trust my comrades and my gun:

No need to aim this thing. Bring on the enemy.

Let’s see some daylight. Death, release your slaves.

 

By Tony Lewis Jones

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On My Walk Home…

On my walk home…

I saw two men dressed in the colours of Mario and Luigi…
On my walk home…
I smelled burning and knew it was Autumn…
On my walk home…
People walk their dogs on long leashes…
On my walk home…
I smelt fish and chips though there were no shops around…
On my walk home…
A man in a wheel chair hurtled down the slope making an old woman step into someone’s garden…
On my walk home…
I smelled burning plastic…
On my walk home…
I unconsciously race anyone who overtakes me…
On my walk home…
It should be a healthy walk but as it’s alongside a major road may be walking in a corridor of fumes from vehicles…
On my walk home…
A school girl waits near a bus stop for someone to meet her…
On my walk home…
There is a part hidden and unlit behind tree cover where someone could attack in the bleak midwinter undisturbed…
On my walk home…
There is no cover from the harsh sun of high summer…
On my walk home… I am alone.


A short vignette based on things I have seen while walking home from work. Written without editting. A ‘flow of consciousness’ piece I suppose you might call it.