The Last Post echoes into the chasm

where we bury our sentiment.

My son marches off with the Scouts,

arms swinging wide in nonchalant chaos;

unlike the stiff soldier I saw walking by

the river on his new titanium legs, each

knee-bend a wincing triumph, a braver

warrior now, than he has ever been.



I admired his grit and I wondered what stirs

in our boys as they kill each other

with plastic Nerf guns. What do we feed

into their imaginations as they destroy evil,

become noble, practise who they want to be.



We decry the demonic pity of war,

and also speak of valour, the immortal

laying down of life, fleshly courage

that we worship. And all the time

we run round the garden, dodging darts

made of foam and pray, No More.


Emma-Jane Peterson lives in a leafy part of England. Her poems have been published in BoomerLitMag, The Sunlight Press, The Clayjar Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, London Grip, Pure In Heart and Black Nore Review, among others.