|
They disembarked in '45 |
|
And no one spoke and no one smiled |
|
There were too many spaces in the line |
|
Gathered at the cenotaph |
|
All agreed with hand on heart |
|
To sheath the sacrificial knives |
|
(Thats right) |
|
But now |
|
She stands upon Southampton dock |
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With her handkerchief |
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And her summer frock |
|
Clings to her wet body in the rain |
|
In quiet desperation knuckles |
|
White upon the slippery reins |
|
She bravely waves the boys goodbye again |
|
Still the dark stain spreads between |
|
Their shoulder blades |
|
A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves |
|
When the fight was over |
|
We spent what they had made |
|
But in the bottom of our hearts |
|
We felt the final cut |
