OLD GUNS ©
By Trevor Bryant April 2017
They languish in most country towns round parks and public places,
Tyres flat, their paint defaced, dogs pissing on their traces.
Old guns left to rust away outside the RSL,
Sad monuments at city squares, or by the town hotel.
In faded hues of grey and green, these relics lie at rest,
Mere remnants of the glory days when they were at their best.
Impotent now, their thunder gone, their deadly barrels blocked,
Their breeches cruelly sabotaged can never more be cocked.
Passers-by may notice them and give some fleeting thought,
Then turn around and walk away for the picnic that they brought.
What stories they'd discover if they took the time to pause,
And learn how these steel warriors have changed the course of wars.
For in the hell of battle, they played a saviour's role,
And many a soldier said a prayer for the fire that saved his soul.
In all the conflicts great and small that man on man has wrought,
The guns as constant as the stars gave succour in support.
They stand there as our legacy from battles lost and won,
For kids to climb and birds to stain, their dignity undone.
The old guns now are silent, consigned to history;
Consider them with reverence for all they used to be.
