Cost of War.

She hadn’t thought war
Had killed so many. It seemed
An abstract battle fought abroad.
Lists of names she barely scanned.
Seemed some other’s son, husbands
Or fathers unknown to her with no
Touch or feel on her conscious mind
Or prick of remorse, not for others
Of course. A matter of do and die,
Her father said, a general retired,

Medalled and revered, sitting out
The war through age, aches and pains,
No more honours to win, no more
Medals or gains. She hadn’t thought
Her son could be claimed in battle’s
Heat and fire; hadn’t realized his flesh
And bone was liable to break and bleed
As others of a lesser breed. War’s no
Respecter of class or sex or age; it does
It worse, it burns and kills, it wrecks

Its rage. She hadn’t thought war had
Maimed so many in body and mind,
Even survivors have their nightmares
Of battles and scars to heal. Now she
Can see them, and touching along her
Dead son’s coffin and hearing the bugle
Play its mournful score; she knows now
The cost of battles: those lost at war.