Home From Afghanistan (stripped down version)


The organ breathes softly in the still air.
The gentle hesitant notes,
just enough to underline the silence,
not wanting to intrude.

In a corner, with the dust and cobwebs,
a few bits of confetti,
reminders of joyful celebrations.
A world away today.

In the vestry the vicar rehearses.
Murmurs reassuring words,
“We gather to remember and honour …”
And puts on his surplice.

Everyone in the surrounding area
is here to show their respect.
“Died immediately, mercifully.”
“By a sniper, I think.”

Someone’s mobile goes off and is silenced.
Curious, a small child whispers,
“Mummy, where do people go when they die?”
“Hush, pet,” is the answer.


About Ben Naga

Pilgrim on the lam. Please feel free to explore the links to learn more. I trust you will find some things there will have been worth the effort. See you there.

Posted on April 27, 2015, in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. Sadly, a scene too often repeated in this world.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. There is no answer that is true enough. And people go on dying.
    I hope my fantasy of what is to be comes true
    Otherwise, I am untethered
    Floating through imaginary space
    Looking for tomorrow
    If there is to be one

    Liked by 1 person

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