War and Peace in the Back Shed

Uncle Tomas kept books there, the odd fire

warming stone, keeping damp at bay.

The house was an R.I.C. barracks,

this outside room his only library.

The Collected works of Shakespeare, a dictionary,

Physician Travellers – William Wilde’s Lough Corrib.

These populated shelves but two books reigned,

dominated with their height and tome.

The Afghan Wars – The Story and The Officers, 

bound in deep red leather, gold lettering 

embellishing the covers. I eyed the war books, 

fanned through their gilt-edged pages.

Officers of an unknown regiment grinned from ovals, 

monochrome images of men who had offered lives. 

Six per page, protected from fading by a flimsy tissue,

shielding their anonymity in a one-sided conflict.

I cut some out, carefully scissoring the ellipsoid icons

from their place in history, reducing generals to men.

I glued them into nondescript scrapbooks, proposing

new life, belligerent forces pasted to tranquil pages.  

Were they missed? Would someone browsing 

the ledgers later wonder why these were chosen?

There was no pre-determined judgement, no verdict

on their actions, only the whim of chance, an impulse.