We were

We were

Children

Rolling in dirt,

There was a time when grass stains

Were the end for a white shirt,

Hiding in a briar patch

Pretending to be dead,

Was it all a game

Or preparation?

Snipers lie in wait for days

Stung by wasps bitten by gnats

Snagged by bramble

Were we all killers

In training.

Wooden rifles pointing

Toy guns with exploding caps

The smell, intoxicating

To roughly hewn boys

Of a certain age.

Heavy rifles,

A Royal Enfield

Held tightly

Against the shoulder

For days at a time

Waiting to commit a crime

Without passion

An assignation

With assassination.

How far were we

From being child murderers

In need of a cause.

Young boys, compliant

Little soldiers

Willing conscripts

Press-ganged waifs

Waiting to die

Unwashed,

In worm-filled

Shallow graved foxholes

Covered in dirt

Not playing

At being dead.