I left the Scots Guards 89 and in 90 what is called Gulf War 1 Started. I watched the news safe and secure from my flat and my mind considered...
I wrote this prose on that first night.

In Remeberance of all our Heroes Then and Now.

FILL THE GULF

As I walk the streets of Golden Rubble,
In and out the cadavers hubble,
I watch the sun sink to another day,
As the souls of the feared slink away.

Like the stars - to and fro the trackers go,
Up towards the Blacks and Gray,
Out to where our hidden masters make us slay,
They remain veiled even in the light of day.

The mighty desert onward rolls,
Recaimantion of this mothers land,
A natural army moving on,
Covering remains of deaths dark hand.

Rockets blind the man on the moon,
Fires burn redder than the eye of the sun,
Naked the wrath of SKUD,
Listing ships in the sea of dried mud.

How great and noble the quill pushers cry,
How great to imagine invisible weapons fly,
Unseen their heads on quilted pillows,
Unseen the heads bleeding and left to eternal sleep.

Old men draw their plans in far away lands,
While the children of our loins are sent to war,
Laying to waste the foe,
Some innocent Some ignorant they listen to a tyrants show.

Against this percieved infection they are the hand of war,
Heeding freedoms call?
How can they free them all?
The Oppressor and the Oppressed both innocent and guilty fall.

Officers act and asked to stand tall,
Without them will the little man fall?
Is there within the waves of golden braid new heroes?
To acheive their goals and order to host the day when some honour remained.

To Cross this Chasm,
To Fill This Gulf between mankind.

What weapon would you take?
This new breed of men,
What terrors can they make?
What lies behind this armies wake?
Horrors no escape, those left blinded and deaf will forever forsake.

So....
This innocent soldier walks on,
Never a shot fired in anger nor hate,
An individual in a sea of so many,
Too tired to fight or take flight.

A young female spits in his eye,
And he walks on,
He does not seek revenge,
He remembers is upbringing in strength,
To turn his other eye offered for her to scorn,
His faith in actions and not cruel words.

He tries to show some sign of peace,
There then this moment realisation occurs.
On there knees in prostrate pose,
One to the eastern sunrise,
One to Mecca,
One God,
More similar in hope of peace.

Partisans and Foe alike,
Scared for the final strike,
They listen for a an ultimate score,
And then - Yes - Sirens Wailing Concerto.

INCOMING - Homing birds return,
Wings and hearts beat faster,
GAS, GAS, GAS, or Mystical Murder,
How can they say that each war is the same?
How can they say freedom and honour?
The hidden play a deadly power-game.

We walk the path of marble tabloids,
Some nameless stones,
In years under moss and ivy,
Forgotten NO. Not by I.

Trapped in the void,
This Gulf between Mankind!

© Jonathan MacLean-Lambie 1990-2008