Happy days.

Happy days.

Perhaps he was a soldier

It is in his bearing

Straight back, legs kicked out

A quick march every day

Up and down the foreshore

Marshalling the troops

Disdain so plainly written

On his face

For the blowhards

Pity is wasted I can hear him say

He has the look of death

In his hollowed eyes

Perhaps he killed the one he loved

All the way from Reading

As wild as any Oscar

Given for fine acting

Damn spots

Splashed the brightest red

Blurring all he sees

Tainting the beauty of sunrise

Never seen again

As quite the way it was

Before the peace was shattered

Sometimes there were a hundred suns

To turn his eyes away

The gaze of other people

Burns him to the quick

Exposure cuts both ways

How he wishes to be seen

Even though he would remain

Invisible

Pining for innocence lost

Before he realised

There was to be no turning

The path however winding

Was always straight ahead

The rest is wishful thinking

There is rarely any speaking

Words are precious

A commodity of sorts

Not to be traded lightly

Good grace lies in the manner

Of his avoidance

A smile, a nod, a greeting

Pinched out from between thin lips

Stretched tight

To keep the truth in

Pain is a private thing

Not to be wasted

On trivialities

He might be searching

For a purpose

Lost in the detritus of life

Rotting, as the seaweed

Cast up above the waterline

A mire of dirt and slime

Soiling what could be paradise

Perhaps he really is the guardsman

A worried

Lonesome warrior

Transported for his sins

A symbol of oppression

In latter days

Even as he prays

For the strength to mend

His broken-hearted ways

He knows he will keep walking