The loneliness of plundered, foreign lands
Has gifted back my love of England's green,
But guilt cannot be washed from bloody hands
And all the oaks can't shade what I have seen.
When in my pensive moods I often think
Perhaps our fight for peace was ill-begot;
A raided ship will often burn and sink,
It's treasure lost and legacy forgot.
So in the summer haze beneath the trees,
When I am safe and miles away from pain,
My country blows a cool and spiteful breeze
And fills my lungs with guilt, remorse and blame.
We shot our 'peace' from cannons and from guns
And now I burn beneath an English sun.
Ben! I noticed it seemed quiet on here the past week and you hadn't posted anything in that amount of time (a week feels like forever in my eyes lol). Hope you've been well, though.
Your sonnets are beautifully striking as always, and your voice carries such emotion and history in every verse. The most thought-provoking line for me was "we shot our 'peace' from cannons and from guns". Profound piece, Ben.