Forgive me ...

Forgive me ...

if I don’t hang around
mouth a prayer;
stand arm in arm
join fellow comrades all
to weep, dry-eyed, at your grave.

Bemoan what damn bad show;
say just how noble you’d been
to die for queen
not to mention fucking country.

If you wouldn’t mind too much
my old mate
I’ll be out of here.
Certain to find you at the bookstall
by New Street Station

or perhaps in the queue
for the late-night viewing
of whatever’s new
at the Adelphi.

Failing that
might grab a coffee
and a sarnie
at the café on the corner
by the news-stand.

Bound to catch you there,
coat slung over
your customary chair
mirrored in the window
the more I stare.

Forgive me my friend
if I decline to do
what protocol dictates
discharge my regimental duty

throw cold clay
upon your flag-draped coffin.
Because from there, dear one,
you are long gone

to stay, forever young,
in the place where no shadows fall.
Content to watch the rest of us
grow forever old.