Ice melting in the summer sunshine.

 
The Christians stopped singing,
the sun came out,
a thousand families play and shout,
the cathedral bells ringing.
 
I tired to talk to you about it,
but you told me a story,
we never did get a trip to France,
or wore khaki kit; 
the rough rider's lance,
holding it all in,
trying to be normal.
 
They never went down to the long stay ward,
packing Christmas crackers,
drugged and bored,
begging woodbines in the long stay ward.
 
It rained as you marched to the front,
when you went over the top,
the sun came out,
you never came back,
your pain melted with the silence.
 
Art is long life is short,
the boys broke into song,
keep right on 'til the end of the road,
keep right on to the end.
 
An old punk got stung by a wasp on his lip,
the sun kept shining.

~