(Peter Rolls retired from the Civil Service in 1990 and joined a creative writing class in Camberley. Since then he has been writing on a more-or-less weekly basis: stories, poems and the occasional amdram play. He is now with the West Street Writers in Farnham and busy, busy …)
These are the boots ...
These are the boots, the shining boots,
That stood on the King’s parade;
That marched off to war, to the trumpets of war,
The call that must be obeyed.
These are the boots, the soldier’s boots,
That tramped the Great White Way;
That sank in the mud, the Passchendaele mud,
And prayed for the light of day.
These are the boots, the swaggering boots,
That dawdled the blackberry lane;
That took the long road, the roundabout road,
For courting with Emily Jane.
These are the boots, the working boots,
That dug upon the hill;
That planted the house, the family’s house,
That rooted and stands there still.
These are the boots, the seven-league boots,
That sprang through the sky to Ceylon;
And flew through the wood, the Fairytale wood,
With younger boots following on.
These are the boots, the pottering boots,
That watched as the world went by;
That stretched in the sun, the evening sun,
As they painted the stars in the sky.
These are the boots, the resting boots,
That stand behind the door;
The leather is cracked, the laces are snapped
No matter ... no matter ... ... No more
(Written in 1992)