Falkland Islands Grass In the Falkland Islands, grass grows everywhere. You can walk on the tufts, but must always take care. For it rips through your boots, and the clothes that you wear, And it slashes your skin and get stuck in your hair. It grows very tall, in the cold windy air, And its blades are as sharp as a fresh Prickly Pear. But to hard Upland Geese, it’s a soft comfy chair, On which they build nests, made of grass and of hair. There are places in the Falklands, that are rocky bare. Where troops fought and died, in the light of a flare. They believed in their cause, but they thought it unfair, That it was they who were fighting and paying their share. Those that survived now recall the despair, And the fear that they felt, in the searchlight’s bright glare. They hugged the sharp grass in the battle’s loud blare. They stayed still under fire, then advanced when they dare. Some were buried on the island, after a service or mass, And they lay in their graves, side by side, class by class. Now the graves show the signs, of the years as they pass, And the flowers are replaced by the harsh Falkland’s grass.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Apr 2014 08:58:56 +0000
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