R. P. Griffin



Taken from the book Interlude.


In many years of wandering and campaign, what have we gained?

What wisdom is our lusty compensate,

What dull claret has become our champagne,

In throaty tales what should the heart relate?


To those who follow should we tell the tale

Of truth and falsehood, anger and man's lust

Of gory stricken bodies doomed to fail,

Yet fated still to conquer Egypt's dust?


Of noble deed, of sacrifice in vain

Attack and counter - Hell without respite.

The calm as stillness held before the rain

Of some deep music softening religious rite.


Of comradeship, that precious flower we hold,

And treasure for all time

The drops of water shared in friendship's mould,

Where every morsel fights against the clime.


Of exile ever teaching at such cost

The fallacies of life before

The bobbing, clamouring of minds storm-tossed,

The sight of bodies languishing or raw.


And so what shall we tell them as they stand

Wide-eyed to hear, absorb, or yet abuse?

Rather, friend, let writing fill the sand -

Tide-washed, becoming soon a silent muse.