Post by KG on Feb 4, 2018 13:29:56 GMT
THE BATTLEFIELDS 100 years later
I can see the battlefields all around the Somme,
Remnants of old scars, left by shell and bomb,
Imagining despair in the trenches` sodden mire,
Enduring waiting hours grieving under fire.
Biding with the rats and constant itching lice,
In amongst the `whiz bangs` that slaughter in a trice.
The haggard desolation in the face of every man,
Since the taking of a shilling to join the General’s plan.
From a distant ruin, a sniper plays his game,
Leaving postured corpses stiffened by his aim.
Craters in the mudscape, barbed wire stretched as well,
Appalling pong of rotting horse and explosive’s acrid smell.
Miles and miles of carnage making stark morass,
Over there, creeping green, ghastly mustard gas.
I wonder at the fear with bullets all around,
On a likely rendezvous with death on foreign ground.
I can imagine soldiers tense on timber deck,
Waiting for a signal – the whistle round a neck,
Scrambling up a fire step to charge there over top,
A rattling of machine gun - then a sudden stop.
I can see the battlefields – no war or guns are there,
Just a skylark singing – peaceful in the air.
Joe Earl
I can see the battlefields all around the Somme,
Remnants of old scars, left by shell and bomb,
Imagining despair in the trenches` sodden mire,
Enduring waiting hours grieving under fire.
Biding with the rats and constant itching lice,
In amongst the `whiz bangs` that slaughter in a trice.
The haggard desolation in the face of every man,
Since the taking of a shilling to join the General’s plan.
From a distant ruin, a sniper plays his game,
Leaving postured corpses stiffened by his aim.
Craters in the mudscape, barbed wire stretched as well,
Appalling pong of rotting horse and explosive’s acrid smell.
Miles and miles of carnage making stark morass,
Over there, creeping green, ghastly mustard gas.
I wonder at the fear with bullets all around,
On a likely rendezvous with death on foreign ground.
I can imagine soldiers tense on timber deck,
Waiting for a signal – the whistle round a neck,
Scrambling up a fire step to charge there over top,
A rattling of machine gun - then a sudden stop.
I can see the battlefields – no war or guns are there,
Just a skylark singing – peaceful in the air.
Joe Earl