Lone Hero

 

On the way to see a very old lonely man,

I was walking on an ancient cobbled road,

Glass smoothed by hundreds of hard shoes,

A proud country of lives continually erode.

 

This man was the saviour of Britain’s freedom,

Priceless medals discarded in a dusty draw,

Stained beard guarding a row of plastic teeth,

Hiding a sturdily built soldier’s chiselled jaw.

 

Memories of a sweetheart on dirty walls,

Wooden tv on a chipboard table up loud,

Only the five undefined channels available,

This veteran lives away from the crowd.

 

Half shut curtains hiding the hero within,

A beacon of freedom living in the gloom,

Living on pension rations from his homeland,

Coldly distributed in a government room.

 

An aging house avoided by all the mod cons,

Heat coming from an eighties fake fire,

Flickering florescent faux daylight flares out,

Whistling sounds for the tea making choir.

 

Memories of vital victories for England etched,

Against all odds and mounting resistance,

For King and country he achieved many miracles,

Daring deeds that all tipped the balance.

 

I pass the bomb cracked mid terrace house,

With its lucky red Chinese refugee door,

Arriving at the tired house of the lone hero,

Its sliding windows from just after the war.

 

I knocked the antique knocker scaring dust,

Hearing the loud groaning just after,

A while later my granddad stood in its place,

Face beaming out and filled with laughter.  

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