The Bayonet In The Shed

He put it there in forty nine,

in a woodworm riddled drawer,

wrapped it in a greasy rag.

A remnant from the war.

On top of it he laid his medals,

nothing more was said

until the day my father

took the bayonet from the shed.

We had pestered many times

and he had said ‘perhaps’

when we asked him if he’d killed

any Krauts or any Ja...

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