Tags
Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, Old soldiers, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Sacrifice in war, sonnet
The Old Soldier
He sits there in the winter’s morning sun.
His pale blue eyes have faded with the years,
And shed in solitude some bitter tears.
This man so frail, could he have been the one
Whose wasted arms once held a victor’s gun?
He’s seen the darker side, no death he fears,
But as the day of reckoning it nears,
He wonders was the loss worth what was won.
His life, a story mixed of hope and toil.
The years have gone – how rapidly they fly.
And now he sees the enemy is nigh –
A foe no bullet and no steel can foil.
To fight and win but finally to die,
And gain at last a tiny patch of soil.
dnobrienpoetry 
Very good. I wrote some lines about the Confederate soldiers who died in battle and used a photo to illustrate what they had gained:
They fought and died and this is left –
The narrow space that’s for them cleft,
The ground they won while rest was lost
And this long rest is what it cost.
Yours survived to “gain at last a tiny patch of soil.”
There’s much of life to think about concerning war, and death.
Indeed – thanks bard.
This certainly makes one think.
True, but someone had to do it.
You paint such vivid pictures with your words- thanks for sharing them!
My pleasure Anne Clare and thank you.