A Soldier of the Sixties

On this remembrance Sunday I post this with no apologies for simplicity.

He stands there at the cenotaph, his figure slightly bowed,
Chill winds blow his overcoat as rain falls upon the crowd,
This his annual pilgrimage to remember friends he’s known,
Who went to war beside him and never made it home,

If you called him a hero he’d laugh and shake his head,
We only did our little bit there’s nothing to be said,
The other lads were heroes those who gave their lives,
Never to return again to daughters, sons and wives,

But there is much mute evidence on his be-medalled chest,
Of a man who suffered hardships great whilst giving of his best,
Who stood staunch with his comrades in some Northern Irish town,
Whilst mayhem reigned about him and petrol bombs rained down,

Who before that fought in Borneo that small forgotten war,
That hardly anyone’s heard of what was he fighting for?
He was fighting for our freedom, so we don’t live in fear,
And to hold on to the principals  we cherish very dear,

To speak our minds on religion, of politics left and right,
These are the gifts of freedom and freedom’s worth the fight,
He’d say we don’t owe him anything but that surely isn’t true,
He spent his youth protecting truth for the rights of me and you.

This soldier of the sixties though just a simple man,
Will always be a member of a very special clan,
Not for him the glory of the world wars battles great,
Just mean streets and jungles heat of hurry up then wait.

So if you meet him on the street stop and share a joke,
But don’t call him a hero this ‘ordinary’ bloke,
You’d but just embarrass him so if you mention it just say,
So you don’t think a hero mate? Well, thank you anyway.