Fields of Your Youth


Standing in a field like any other;

Similar to the ones you ran through as a child,

Care-free giggles, laughter and screams of glee, permeating all around;

So delightfully excited to be among your peers, playing at war, tag or what-not;

Punctuated by a stern reproach to ‘get back inside’!

Triggering an involuntary squirm echoing out into the distance before fading away;

A distant whistle precipitates an explosion, like lightning shattering a moment of reverie;

The child is a child no longer but a soldier with bayonet-fixed-rifle in hand;

He stands on a field less green than muddy, a drenched swamp that’s more bog than anything alike;

His karkey greens caked in wet, cold, mud;

Reflecting on memories when he played war as a child,

The adult version of the game (he grimly observed, taking shape around him) is more stark, morbid and visceral than could ever be realised;

A charge will soon be called by bugle horn,

And, he will run through this muddy marsh with bayonet thrust out;

Artillery shells, explosions and gunfire will ring out;

Shrapnel will take turns to scar, maim and shred you and the lads around you into mangled messes;

All of this you must confront head-on;

And stop only to cut through obstructing barbed-wire before continuing the onward charge,

Y’see: your own side will shoot you dead on sight for desertion,

Ahead of you lies the only bloody salvation available;

You have no choice but to move on;

Not all your friends will make it whole or at all,

Including you, if not for the grace of God;

So, make your peace with your maker for you will not get another chance,

The games you play are games no longer;

And memories of happier times-

Made so long ago, you can be forgiven for feeling you almost imagined them-

Are all you have.

Final Game!

Churning stomachs,

Frayed nerves,

A rollercoaster-ride with each ball,

Whack-it, smack-it, glide-it into/over the boundary;

Keep the runs ticking;

Whatever you do, just don’t give your wicket away!!

Watching your team play a world cup final, can seem like experiencing a near-apoplectic nightmare!

Suddenly however, the tension eases:

When you see your opponents are far more tense than you are;

When all goes well;

And, lady luck shines her spell,

The elation hits you for a six so high,

You don’t ever want to come down!

(In)Sanity of Men

The sanity of men is at borderline at best,

Patience is temporal,

Tolerance is a luxury;

Fairness is an illusion and justice is a delusion,

When gangs roam the streets with long-knives calling for blood,

No one knows the cause,

Some such thing or other,

Does it really matter? When mad men stalk your door;

Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go;

Except to resign your fate to the mob;

With heads bowed, for cruelty is at large;

Politicians are opportunists given a platform;

Never forget: Institutions, the courts, and all safeguards, are manned by men,

Capable of turning their backs for self-serving ends,

Leaders, lead as well as they mislead,

Those who thrive in times of luxury, will also end up victims in anarchy;

The divide is as thin as a sharpe blade that cuts both ways;

This is not a dystopia nor a post-apocalyptic scenario,

For, it isn’t like it hasn’t happened before, or will again(!)


Would you feel more comfortable if I turned a shade more lighter?

Make the timbre of my voice more oak than teak, so it would ring a little more familiar?

Does it irritate when i speak of customs, traditions, gods & celebrations of foreign climbs?

Do you truly believe in a multi-ethnic & pluralistic identity or prefer a monothistic way of life (where all look, do & say like you than i)?

Travelling through modern day inner city Britain, do you become concerned all of a sudden that you are the only white Anglo Saxon within sight?

An over-saturation of numbers & unfamiliar – foreign – faces;

Gradually, turning your ancestral home into a foreign, third world, annex-

In the heart of western decadence, wealth & profligacy,

Sleepwalking you out of a home & stealthily de-possessing you of your identity,

Engulfing what was once ‘Great’ in Great Britain in times gone by,

Turning it unrecognisable, full of unfamiliar sights & sounds-

Far removed from the place you used to call home, with pride, since you were a child?

Then make your long held-back plea, out of a misguided adherence to political correctness & courtesy,

Now finally demands airing in hushed fervent hope –

‘Oh, Queen & Country, your grand majesty, restore pride to our people; be rid of this resent infestation of foreign discolouration!’

‘Do this & our Greatness will be restored once more, to rule the waves with pride, again!’

‘Where will they go?’, an unhelpful voice utters-

‘I care not, just be rid of them- that is all!’, came the swift reply with gusto and whim

If you feel this way, i hate to break it to you:

If these ‘foreign’ faces were made to disappear overnight, you would be rapidly increasing this country’s decent into terminal financial decline-

Yes, that may mean very little (if anything) to you, but imagine for one moment that you wake one day to find martial law has been declared-

For the government has no money to pay the million plus (& more) permanent jobless nor for those maintaining essential services,

And, has had to keep the hungry & disgruntled at bay by strength of arms-

Any savings will soon be exhausted or rendered of no value, and your assets (if any) will struggle to find a buyer –

Making life far more difficult to lead than even in the present difficult & demanding economic times,

Yes, I agree, I do not know this for certain,

My hypothesis is a guess, just like yours, conditioned by my experiences,

And, what will happen in either case, I (wholeheartedly) agree, no one knows for certain,

But, if you truly love this country, as I do, would you really tolerate such intolerable possibilities & ruination, because of colour & comparatively minor differences?

Only you, and time, will tell, I suppose.