Not This Love

David Rowbotham

I will not give this love to the guns.
But only the young are left.
They were torn from trysts in ruins;
And the new truths their limbs conceived;
And the exquisite honeymoon.

And all the old men and women
Who posted white feathers,
And the wreaths at the doorways, won.

This was the death of fathers,
And the deaths of the unborn.
This was the path of the ashen snowman.
This was the tread of the wading gun
In forsaken seas of demolition.

I will not leave this love. I am shot
By old captains for desertion.