David Roberts, 'Home Come Your Sons'
Home Come Your Sons
(Brize Norton 28 March 2003)
On this misty spring day
at an airfield in Oxfordshire
ten hearses wait.
Families in formal lines, bandsmen,
commanders - the services' top brass, chaplains,
the Duke of York, the Minister of Defence,
here to do their bit, wait
and watch the sky,
searching for a sign
of a returning plane.
Then suddenly with massive roar
the huge transporter touches down.
They wait again,
and how much longer must they wait this awful apparition?
At last
unseen forces lower the huge tail door.
This is the moment.
Home come your sons -
the first to die in this sad war.
One by one,
ten coffins draped in union flags
are carried shoulder high by six young men
walking at a solemn pace.
Fine words are spoken -
words of respect and consolation.
In turn each coffin is borne
to each waiting hearse
and the band plays Handel's mournful march.
You know they did their duty -
good-hearted, keen, they had so much to give.
Yet this is their reward. It makes no sense.
You shake with grief and utter loss.
You are filled with pride
and try to comprehend
the reasons your sons died who should have lived.
Regrettably, the public also has a right to ask,
was fighting in this war a necessary task?
Was it right
that your sons went to bomb and kill
people who bore us no ill?
They were a courageous band of brothers
who went abroad
to risk the lives of others.
It must take guts to drop those bombs
on defenceless people who had no chance.
Was it really necessary to attack
the innocent people of Iraq? -
Children, half of them,
and over half malnourished.
What had they done to us
to be so punished?
Your boys didn't have to maim and kill
or break the hearts of mothers.
This is the shamefullest of wars.
They could have used their talents in a decent cause.
They could have lived,
and you could see them still.
By David Roberts
(Brize Norton 28 March 2003)
On this misty spring day
at an airfield in Oxfordshire
ten hearses wait.
Families in formal lines, bandsmen,
commanders - the services' top brass, chaplains,
the Duke of York, the Minister of Defence,
here to do their bit, wait
and watch the sky,
searching for a sign
of a returning plane.
Then suddenly with massive roar
the huge transporter touches down.
They wait again,
and how much longer must they wait this awful apparition?
At last
unseen forces lower the huge tail door.
This is the moment.
Home come your sons -
the first to die in this sad war.
One by one,
ten coffins draped in union flags
are carried shoulder high by six young men
walking at a solemn pace.
Fine words are spoken -
words of respect and consolation.
In turn each coffin is borne
to each waiting hearse
and the band plays Handel's mournful march.
You know they did their duty -
good-hearted, keen, they had so much to give.
Yet this is their reward. It makes no sense.
You shake with grief and utter loss.
You are filled with pride
and try to comprehend
the reasons your sons died who should have lived.
Regrettably, the public also has a right to ask,
was fighting in this war a necessary task?
Was it right
that your sons went to bomb and kill
people who bore us no ill?
They were a courageous band of brothers
who went abroad
to risk the lives of others.
It must take guts to drop those bombs
on defenceless people who had no chance.
Was it really necessary to attack
the innocent people of Iraq? -
Children, half of them,
and over half malnourished.
What had they done to us
to be so punished?
Your boys didn't have to maim and kill
or break the hearts of mothers.
This is the shamefullest of wars.
They could have used their talents in a decent cause.
They could have lived,
and you could see them still.
By David Roberts