Sounds of Distant Drums

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“Dear Lord I loathe this time of year”
Prayed a mother on bended knee,
“Memories fuel my constant fear,
Of the son, war took from me”

He was so young and fancy free,
So proud and tall and strong,
His loving arms embracing me,
Assuring me ‘It won’t be long’

I begged him not to go this time,
Feeling with his life he’d pay.
I then heard the church bells chime,
And there was nothing more to say.

Donned In cammo, vellies, and beret.
He walked me to the door,
Then turning he marched away…
And I saw my son no more.

He was too young to go to war,
And far too young to die
His tender age not yet a score.
He was my boy…my ‘little guy’

Tears festooned my grieving face,
Pallbearer friends all acting brave;
As the Piper piped Amazing Grace,
They lowered my son to his grave

There were no winners in this war;
War cost so many their pride and joy,
For mankind is rotten to the core.
War stole from me my precious boy …

Alf Hutchison
Troopie 5Batt RR

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