“The last one there is a cow pat!”
grinned the small boy
running between the white headstones
as he began the one hundred metre dash
along the narrow strip of turf separating
Private Tom Atkins, age 18, of the Lancashire Fusiliers,
from Lieutenant Edward Hollis, age 19,
of the Seaforth Highlanders;
more than twice the distance they managed
over the same small field
that October morning eighty-seven years before
into the spitting venom of the machine guns
that killed them instantly.
Poems:
Listen to Your Manager
Your Smile
On the Beach at New Quay
Banana
While Waiting
Boy at the Somme
Stories:
The Dream Team
The Dog Who Cried Custard
Bags of Inspiration
Time Flies
Little Devil