You Sit And Wait

 You Sit And Wait

   You sit and wait, remembering family homes, mothers cooking and the smells that fill the pantry on those cold winter nights.
   There you sit, wet, cold and full of fear, looking at the blood-stained, mud-caked wooden rungs on those ladders that lead from hell to heaven.
   You sit waiting upon that whistle, that haunting sharp piercing whistle, the sound that lets heaven's gates know it's time to open and welcome yet more khaki-clad boys.
   Back home, well they sit by fires awaiting any tiny glimpse of hope, they pray and wait just as you do, their fear may be no match for yours but enough to banish any smile that once sat upon their faces.
   You sit and wait, memories of Sunday walk through tree-lined lanes, long summer days and harvest work, hard and warm, but much missed.
  Now you face a different walk, one lined by no trees nor one-paced under the summer sun, for this stroll you will never forget, the mud, the water-filled shell-holes and skin confetti that hangs upon wire barbed and rusted.
   And if you fail to return to those mud-filled rat runs you now call home, in every village and every town we will carve your name in stone and remember you always. For you are our heroes and hell you faced so we could walk free, thank you our brave Tommies of the king.