When the pen takes control.

As we moved on to the open ground

chatting, laughing, till we found

something that really made us stare,

who on earth would leave that there

I thought, and more in fear than surprise

I could hardly believe my eyes,

admittedly it gave me quite a start

this example of the craftsman’s art,

such a finely carved wooden chair,

who could leave that sitting there

my partner said we should be wary

it might belong to the King of the Fairies.

With head bowed, ramrod straight he stands

then turns and marches just one pace

his eyes fixed on the concrete base

his rifle tight held in his hands

each move meticulously planned

his puffed out chest betrays his pride,

as across the dais his boots slide,

the toes of which are polished bright

a task that took him half the night

in honour to all those who died.