The Lone Voice

Now I sit on Bond Street,
incarcerated in stone,
leaning towards Roosevelt
sitting casually to my right
and I wonder;
was it worth the fight?

I think back
to 1940s Britain, where
Chamberlain had failed us
and I offered nothing
but blood, toil, tears and sweat.

As Hitler beat his iron fist
against my nations heart,
families huddled in sodden shelters
that offered themselves
like watery graves,
hidden in the depths
of the underground-
where children forced
trembling palms onto aching ears,
and mothers clutched love,
memories and hope,
wrapped in brown envelopes;
the faded string fastened
tightly around their past.

Whilst hands lost their grip
on life, in streets and homes,
darkened by black-taped
windows,
boots trailed muddy
footprints through fields,
lightened by orange flames
of bomb-wrecked planes-
where the dust of men
lingered in metal crevices
and charred remains
of their static two-way radios.

I think back
to May 8th 1945, where
a mass of relief gathered
in Whitehall, waving victory
with flags of red, white and blue.

And I wonder,
as our nations
fight once more
in this endless struggle for power,
do men still say this
was our finest hour?