yet.....
Through the mist, the silent sun
will tarnish with its silvery glow,
the spindly, twisted fingers
of the naked sycamore below,
Dripping its nervous shadows
onto the remnants of calico,
of once brightly coloured tunics
now faded by nature's woe,
they once sang.......
"Rest on your laurels,
sleep in ignorant bliss,
wake when the air is stagnant
and the land becomes an abyss,
Lay beside twisted wire
woven in bayonetted threads,
the indiscriminate spiders web
that ripped brave men to shreds"
so.....
We lay upon the dampened soil
to taste the smoky plumes,
that spray across the battlefield
in swathes of poppy blooms,
Embers of once beautiful lands
whither in the choking fumes,
from the fires of winters conflict
that still ravages and consumes,
as voices sang.....
"Scatter scarlet flowers
to disguise the blood,
wrap the corpses in calico
and bury them in the mud,
Place white crosses
that all look the same,
for the unknown soldiers
who died without a name"
Continued page 44