a poem marking the 80th anniversary of the ending of World War 2
Match of the Day cameras
focus their lenses on
young boys and their disappointments
in the closing minutes
in the dashing of hope.
The fingers on their hands
go to the bone
of the sockets of eyes
to prevent their tears
staining their faces.
After the match, so we’ve heard,
men will go home
and pass on their beating.
There are no cameras
for those beaten in war.
They’re all parading victors
their celebrations
their talk of living for peace.
How does it feel to be
a beaten people?
What would history tell us
if written by losers?
The shame is in defeat,
in losing everything
they’ve ever fought for,
for being on the wrong side
for allowing themselves to be misled,
for still breathing
and surviving
and wondering forever
if they fought hard enough,
or if survival
was its own betrayal.
They need new warriors
to help them fight again.
Kiefer had it,
the imagination
for a nation
down on its knees.
Following Vincent,
he painted the sunflower,
now bent and grey,
head shaking
stem hollowed,
shame-faced,
shaken to its core,
spilling the seed
of its future
watering the bloody earth
for a different
golden dawn.
September 2nd 2025
©DavidHerbert
