In Flanders Fields there is place where tigers lay with wolves, where bears and lions remain unmoved, their hands remain- still full. These are the men without a home, without the chance, no more to roam. Their friends, they lay in lines so long, flat out, a name, a number and a cross, they are the known. Family visit and lay a bloom, exactly, where they are shown. In Flanders Fields not one, not two, not three nor four. Simply, many, many more. Lay twisted, still dressed, with arms in hand they fight the foe so long removed. Just nearby, the foe, the same, the two, their gallantry is proved. In Flanders Fields there lay some men, no-one hears their voice nor wipes their tears. Mothers, long gone, remember still, their boys as they get told, “climb the steps with cries and cheers.” “Trust”, they said, “You walk, cross dirt, wire removed by us at whistle blow” Steel bayonet fixed, a smile, a jeer, they guess its false, but still, they go. Till, bullet brush, metal sears, they fall amongst the Flanders spires, No churchyard nor line for them, just mud and silence, till time expires. In Flanders Fields farmers tend their crops, They know not who they stand atop. In Flanders there is a field, where one-day, hell, will be revealed.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Aug 2014 11:05:56 +0000
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