War Poetry

1940

They were my boys!
Not mine because I bore them in my bed,
Nursed them, and cradled them, and bought them toys,
Dressed them, and saw that they were fed;
But mine because they used to come
To me and say, “It’s nice here … just like home!”
There I would make them tea, while they would tell
Me of the camp and what each day befell;
How their damned leader didn’t know a thing,
But had to ask them how to lay a gun …

Now on the wire and in the mud they lie;
And I am here, and all the chairs are empty where
They used to sit; the lonely air
Echoes their voices; almost I turn
To answer them. And I have but my tears that burn
For them … my boys … my boys!

by Dame Mary Gilmore DBE