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There won't be any winners
next time my son,
marching ranks
or split trail guns,
machine-guns' blast
or mortars' drum,
just banshee shrieks
and hot white suns.

Six minutes' warning
for the final attack,
and all the missiles
fast on their tracks,
from silo's wombs
they'll leap blue hot,
and history's line
will show a full stop.

No time to pack
and kiss and wave
farewell to friends
in their global grave,
flash and blast,
hurricane heat,
mutually assured
and melted streets.

No bayonets' charge
of battle lines,
no fronts or sides
or backs,
just high white lines
in wet grey clouds,
supersonic whines
and neutron shrouds.

A billion skins
and eyes flash burnt,
pus pain beds
and peace not learnt,
no time to cry
or gnash your teeth,
it could really come
sometime next week.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


home | foreword | roll of honour | the poems | links