Desert Dawn
The cold keeps the tired from sleeping, but shortly before the dawn,
the soldier who should be dreaming, stifles a stubborn yawn.
He has been all night watching, the shadows that creep and
slide,
like a sandy floating carpet, where Jinn and Dragons hide.
The sky begins to lighten, he looks at his mate’s face,
and wonders if tomorrow, will we ever leave this place.
There is no water fit to drink, and nothing worth the eating,
the last place God ever made, and our number keep depleting.
But watch the dawn as it comes up, it could easy be our last,
and see those blood red rays, as on the sand they’re cast.
The shadows flee as does the cold, as light o’r the desert
rippled,
and ware the man who rises up, to be killed or perchance crippled.
There is no turning back for him, or a place to hide,
but who would turn from the enemy, and wound his mother’s pride.
So fix your blade and wet your lip, this will not take so
long,
then you can join your mates again, and sing a merry song.
The fiery sun creeps upward, ever warmer till it’s hot,
the flies are milling round you, it’s a waste of time to swat.
For every time you kill a fly, it always has a brother,
and he will bring a thousand more, then you they try to smother.
So drink your drink and wait awhile, await there by the thistle,
you only move when told to move, and then it is by the whistle.
For when it blows you move so fast, that any one to mark,
is like leading on a drunken man, or shooting in the dark.
The R.S.M. has stopped awhile, to stoke his trusty his pipe,
and even as he lights it, he turns and has a gripe.
Says something to our Piper, he is without compare,
the bagpipes began their wailing, as he plays the old Black
Bear..
The whistles blow and we all know, now is the time to go,
so we set off just like any Toff, strolling down Saville row.
The sand blows over every thing, but the seaside it was not,
and some of the old Regulars, reckoned we should have got a tot.
The Italian guns are firing, and some shells miss but roll,
as ever nearer the enemy the Argylls take their stroll.
You kill some one at a distance, then as together you race,
see the look of fear as you meet him face to face.
There is no time to get friendly, nor check out if you can trust,
so you fight for your life in the desert, then throw up in
disgust.
You come back home a hero, and the bands play happy tunes,
but your mind is still churning, with that encounter among
the dunes.
Would you do any different, someone asked me at tea,
I’m sorry that I can’t answer, what is to be will be.
The sun is as hot as ever, as o’r the desert it shines,
and cold are the nights and mornings, as the Mistral whines.
A lot of young men are missing, and lots of Mothers weep,
and a man goes to his bedroom, to rest but cannot sleep.
Even now when I look in the moonlight,
it makes all the scenery grand,
but it takes me back to the desert, where we struggled in the sand.
I turn again on my pillow, as I try to sleep,
but memories that are so bitter, through my mind do creep,
maybe if some one could find them, in that far off land,
and take them to sleep near their loved ones, instead of alone there
in the sand.
T.O.B.1997©
© 1999 Tom Barker. All rights reserved