Thoughts at Kanchanaburi
Who were you Corporal Deacon, what tales had you to tell?
Before you were lain in this ground, and escaped your living hell;
With beatings all part of your daily round, forced labour, pain, and cruelty
At the hands of a savage army, hell-bent on a quick victory.
Did you wander down leafy byways, close by Hatfield, Hitchin, or Ware?
Or perhaps drive down Bedford highways, in Dad’s car with hardly a care.
Was your girl a Mary or Doris, or p’raps you married in war’s hurried way?
Whatever, I bet you were happy, ’til the Second World War held it’s sway.
Then to the far away shores of Burma, close on Tobruk’s bloody fire,
You were part of a Forgotten Army until life, itself, did expire.
Forgotten, by many, but not me mate, as I stand by your grave in this heat,
For I’ll never forget how you suffered, just so me, and mine, could live free.
I can never forgive the red sun, ‘til bowed by your grave they do stand,
To beg your forgiveness truly, and old enemy ghosts take your hand.