THE GLORY by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

For glories then, this filicide of flags
the sweet meadows cul-de-sacs
fellows marching home on skittish nags
the bulbous sacks their stories then
told to children in sodden sheets
face silken till the ragged orphan meets.

For glories then, the numbered hymns,
the quaint parish amongst the slums
victorious then those slumbered limbs
paint garish medals of jingoistic drums,
and Ha’penny flowers the war office sent
died on the typeface all withered and bent.

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