Projects & Speaking
Academic | Performer | Musician | Public Speaker | War Veteran
Minefield: Different languages but the same experience
Real veterans reflect on how they signed up, and the beginnings of the Falklands War.
Military Poetry
The sea wind howled, the ocean roared,
Through waves of steel, we went to war.
Young hearts ablaze, yet steady hands,
We stood as one on foreign sands.
The morning mist, the silent dread,
A brother’s voice, the words unsaid.
Through fire and fear, through dark and rain,
We fought as one, endured the pain.
Each step we took, the echoes stayed,
Of those who fell, of debts unpaid.
The cold still bites, the past is near,
Yet bonds of war refuse to clear.
Now years have passed, the battle fades,
Yet in my heart, they stand in shades.
The ones who fell, the ones who stand,
Forever Royal, hand in hand.
The deck was steel, the sea was black,
No turning round, no looking back.
With boots laced tight and rifles drawn,
We faced the fight before the dawn.
The sky lit up, the thunder came,
No time for fear, no place for shame.
Through mud and fire, through blood and stone,
We held the line, we stood alone.
The years roll by, the battle ends,
But war still whispers through old friends.
A brother lost, a scar remains,
Yet pride still flows within my veins.
For though the years may take their toll,
They’ll never break a Royal’s soul.
Through life and death, through peace and strife,
Once a Royal—
A Royal for life.
A cold grey dawn, a bitter chill,
A boy steps out with iron will.
The train doors hiss, the platform bare,
Lympstone waits – no time to spare.
A duffel bag, a nervous hand,
A sergeant’s voice, a sharp command.
"Get moving, lad! No time for fear,
You’re in the Corps – you’re Royal here."
The boots feel stiff, the kit too wide,
A child within, a man to hide.
The grind begins, the days stretch long,
Weakness fades, the mind grows strong.
Through mud and sweat, through bruises deep,
Through frozen nights with little sleep.
The boy who stepped off cold and thin,
Leaves forged in fire, Marine within.
Twelve years gone, the gates swing wide,
No rifle slung, no lads beside.
Civvy street’s a world unknown,
No orders barked, just me alone.
No morning runs, no iron grip,
No rations cold, no rolling ship.
The quiet hums, it doesn’t roar—
No war to fight, no Royal Corps.
But echoes march where boots once tread,
Old voices live inside my head.
The civvies talk, they’ll never know,
The weight we bear, the things we show.
Yet stand I will, though lost at sea,
The Corps still burns inside of me.
For though I walk these streets alone,
A Royal’s heart is carved in stone.