CONCHY

He wore a black poppy and a white feather

Every single day with pride

He wore the black poppy and the white feather

Every day until he died

Nothing they did could make him change his mind

Wouldn’t do what they told him to

They locked him up and even beat him up

He still wouldn’t do as he was told

Kept his head high never let them see him cry

Wavered not even as he got old

Conchy was his name

Waging peace his game

Conchy was his name

Waging peace his game

Black poppies

For Conchies

Sixteen hundred

Long dead and gone

They set him to work on the ambulance train

Treating dying and wounded men

Sent him near the front for the whole of the war

Again and again and again

British and French and even German soldiers too

Patched up those he thought would survive

Collected creased photographs of loved ones on swings

From those who were no longer alive

Young girls on swings

From London or Berlin

Daughters, mums and wives

All now with ruined lives

White feathers

For Conchies

Sixteen hundred

Long dead and gone

Took Conchy for his name he was born to disobey

Never did what others told him to do

Refused to go and fight he would never kill a man

No matter whoever wanted him to

Envelopes were sent to him with white feathers in

For week after week after week

He kept them, every one, wore one in his lapel

Waited for somebody to speak

Conchy was his name

Waging peace his game

Conchy was his name

Waging peace his game

Wear a black poppy

For Conchy

Wear a white feather

For Conchy

Sixteen hundred like him

Long dead and gone

Remembered here

To live on and on

Harry Rogers, Aberbanc

November 11th 2014