And should you weep for him, if so inclined,
Then mingle knowledge with your gift of tears,
Bare not your heart alone - unveil your mind
Upon the history of his nineteen years.
He kicked a ball in narrow London streets,
Then pedalled groceries round Walthamstowe.
He learnt of love in cheaper Gaumont seats,
Set it to jazz-time on his radio.
He had a wife for seven magic nights,
His eyes grew softer in a small hotel.
They shared a dream of London, rich with lights
And all the things that Woolworths has to sell.
Against his shaggy head he brushed a sleeve,
Within the barber's shop considered 'pride'.
Bought contraceptives in the hope of leave,
Then flew to Nurnburg that night and died.
Written by William Clapham
In memory of Fl/Sgt. Wiliam Paterson Clapham
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember
them. - Laurence
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• Last Modified: 19 July 2019, 17:41 •