DVR A. Hayes R.A.

In my hand I hold a disc made of bronze.

Beyond the tactile it means nothing to me.

I’m not the person to whom it belongs

I’m not the one who earned it you see.

The medal was found in box of clutter,

On a flea market stall, cost fifty pence.

A small price to pay for a war-time relic

Given to all who served, scant recompense.

What price glory when so many fell

On the battlefields of Belgium and France.

Those brave souls who went through hell

When all they wanted was a fighting chance.

Spare a thought for Driver. A. Hayes

Army number three, four, six, eight, two.

The freedom we have, the continued peace

All that we are, we owe it to you.

Colin Beardshall 2014