They heard the thrum of boots on dust, not knowing friend from foe,
And wagged their tails with open hearts as dawn began to glow.
They thought the guests had come to play, with pockets full of meat,
But terror wears a human face, not always shod in sleet.
Through shattered glass and broken doors they trod on shattered floors,
Still faithful to the voices once that called them out-of-doors.
They sniffed at hands that bore no love, but iron, flame, and lead,
And whimpered once with tilted heads before they fell down dead.
O shepherd brave and spaniel small, O lab that loved the child,
O mutt who barked at empty air and dreams that never smiled,
You guarded what was dear to you till night became your shroud,
Still hoping for a kind command, not thunder in the cloud.
Perhaps in those last fleeting thoughts they saw a younger day,
A ball, a brook, a quiet field, where masters knelt to pray.
Not knowing why the world had turned from kindness into flame,
They died as only dogs can die, still loving, all the same.
So let us carve their names in stone beside the kin they kept,
For loyalty that asked no cause, and tears that angels wept.
Though men may walk in war again with hearts grown cold and grim,
The dogs of peace will come once more, and trust, and play, and hymn.
(By John Shenton)