Poppies fallen and crushed
Floated on still pools of muddy water.
Across a barren bloodscape,
The talent of a thousand men
By the madness of a few.
A whistle called them to death.
The silent guns came to life
Flares illuminated the night sky.
Shadows of mere boys not men
Cut down like harvest wheat.
Last night Michael Hughes asked a question.
It was answered by a stray shell,
No. He would not see the English countryside again.
The barren western front his last vision.
Touch and smell his new world.
I held his shaking hand all the way.
The train shuttered and came to a halt.
Tears rolled down my face,
I fingered the photo of his childhood sweetheart,
I handed him over carefully
But he was already broken.
Copyright F E Dunne 2010
Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Fergal Dunne.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 16.10.2011.