Shrapnel

The sun shines,
caressing her hair as it
Blows innocence in the wind,
You remember playing here, as a child on the Wiltshire hills,
Your heart swells as your daughter
Smiles at you, father. The sun does not penetrate the place you work in,
An inventors labyrinth of tools and oil, no place for a child,
Skilled hands creating a weapon
To pierce the flesh
And make your name immortal. A child, her red stained hair blows
Shattered innocence in the wind,
Crying tears that cascade through time,
A mothers wails, echoing throughout history. When you later receive money in
recognition
Of your skilled hands labours
Does the paper turn to blood
And run through your repulsed hands?
Or, are you proud? for you are immortal. But at what price?
Your name is not that of a boy playing on the Wiltshire hills,
And a father loving, loved,
Your name is pain,
Shrapnel
Henry Shrapnel.