A Kind of Hero
At school he was revered, yet lonely.
No other boy, however much He might dream of it, Dared to try to be his friend.
He walked, gaunt and piratical, All bones and grin, Towards his inescapable end.
Revered, but not by authority, He poured ink into the new hat Of the French master, Painted the blackboard white, Swore at the huge Principal, Refused to bend And invited him to a free fight.
In memory he is beautiful, But only his desperate gold Hair might have been so.
Vaguely we understood, And were grateful, that he performed Our lawless deeds:
Punished, he, allowed us to be good.
The end: he was killed at Alamein.
He wore handcuffs on the troopship Going out, his webbing All scrubbed as white as rice; And we, or others like us, Were promoted By his last derisive sacrifice.
VERNON SCANNELL
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