100 years ago, lest we forget.

100 years ago the WW1 was half over. boys languished in the trenches. Promises of it’ll all be over by Christmas, but a distant memory. We should never forget our past for it will guide us to our future.

I am going to blog a number of poems I wrote and wish to share in memory of the fallen, on all sides. they were all son’s, husbands, brothers.

Distant Battlefields 

A puff of smoke plumes into the air,

As muskets fire shots across the valley.

The ‘enemy’ returns fire without a care,

And there is a short gunfire rally

That cuts down all who have not found cover,

Leaving dead – friend; son; father and brother.

 

Clouds of smoke from nearby canon hangs in the air

As one brave soldier rises from his lair,

Brandishing his musket with bayonet attached,

He’s last seen vanishing as he makes his attack.

He disappears into the cool, mist hung morn,

Just as the day is about to dawn.

 

More guns fire in the ensuing battle,

As generals shout tactics along the line

And wave after wave of young men descend like cattle

Into the affray, not afraid to die.

Thoughts of loved ones filling their minds eye

As the light of their souls drift up to the sky.

 

Trees and tents rise mysteriously above the haze,

As a young soldier staggers out of the smoke in a daze.

“They’re all dead!” he shouts sinking to his knees to cry,

The young, best of our men folk, sent to die.

Needless deaths for the gain of a few square feet

Of land on a hillside, that none will keep.

 

 And just as the battle starts to wane,

Droplets fall as it begins to rain

And streams of blood trickle from the dead,

Gathering into riverlets and puddles of red,

And the dreams of the youth are forever lost,

And the dreams of a nation, oh at what cost.

 

The battle is lost, the battle is won,

As evening’s arms envelop the wounded and maimed,

The moans and cries of pain; the results of a gun;

Can be heard across the campsite, but no-one is blamed,

For this is war and the best of the best are sent to fight,

For in the end OUR COUNTRY is always right.

 

And in years to come, this hillside will be

A place for ancestors to come and see

Where fallen fore-fathers shed their lives,

So today we may be safe, husbands and wives,

And the children play on mounds; graves of the dead;

Who only have flowers to share in their bed.

 

And who shall remember all of their names,

The brave young soldiers who fought for what’s right,

Away from their homes, villages and lanes,

Where they had marched proudly off to fight,

Expecting to return safely back home,

But now they’re all lost, now they’re all gone.

 

In distant battlefields, now are heard only birds cries,

Where once was the scene of last breaths as he dies;

Another young soldier gone from our grasp,

Like many to come, he won’t be the last,

And in the distance, a drum beat mourns

And a bagpipe plays alone and forlorn.


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