I never saw the bomb go off,

I never heard the screams,

Our job was to cordon off the area,

And secure the murder scene.

While they interviewed the witnesses,

Every woman child and man,

And removed the bloody, severed limbs,

A woman’s leg, a child’s hand.

And they did it all without compassion,

Some even cracked a joke,

Not because they thought it funny,

But sometimes it was the only way that they could cope.

With the heartless, wanton murder,

Of a woman and her child,

For a political objective,

That would be forgotten in a while.

Whilst they’ll be dead forever,

Their family destroyed,

No I never saw the smoke and flames,

I never heard the noise.

I didn’t see their bodies blown out,

Through the tempered glass,

I arrived there at the murder scene,

Amidst the aftermath.

Just another British soldier,

Poking in his nose,

At a place he was not wanted,

By the majority I suppose.

But I saw the looks of agony,

On the wounded and the maimed,

And I saw the stream of blood

Flow from the pavement to the drain.

And like every other soldier,

I stood with rifle poised,

In case a sniper in the crown,

Should fire upon our boys.

As was often know to happen,

When the smoke and debris cleared,

Several soldiers had lost their lives

To a shot they couldn’t hear.

So was I scared? Of course I was,

More than most could understand,

But what I remember most of all,

Is that child’s severed hand.

Sometimes at night, while I’m asleep,

I see it there again,

And wake up screaming in a sweat,

Unable to explain,

How a scene I saw in Ireland

Could continue to appear,

To haunt an old man’s nightmares,

After more than forty years.

By

S.E.Ralph..

5-9-2018