I’m eight and you’re going to cane me,
For what? I don’t understand.
You’re in charge and you’re going to hurt me,
For I turned when you told me to stand.
But please, sir, I just didn’t hear, sir,
Through the noise of the playground I ran,
There was hopscotch and football and laughter,
Now I shake as I hold out my hands.
Your stick crashes into my fingers,
And all I can do is to cry.
God, it burns through my skin, the injustice,
Ten years pass and I’m still asking why.
Eighteen and you’re going to shoot me,
For what? I just don’t understand.
You’re in charge and you’re going to kill me,
For I turned when you told me to stand.
But please sir, I just didn’t hear, sir,
Through the noise of the battle I ran,
There was screaming and bombing and sobbing,
Now I shake as you tie back my hands.
Your bullets rip into my body,
As I take one last look at the sky.
It explodes in my heart, the injustice,
A hundred years on, tell me why.
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(I wrote this to mark the centenary of the First World War. It draws on a painful childhood memory of injustice, when I was caned at school for reasons I didn’t understand. The beautiful illustration was kindly produced by Mackenzie Thorpe for the Remembrance Sunday edition of The Northern Echo in 2014.)