Youthful soldiers fresh faced, naïve
volunteer to join Britain’s elite,
marching to face an almighty foe
on battlefields of mud, ice and snow.
Once filled with vitality, vigor and hope
now bitter as they struggle to cope,
slowly months turn cruelly into years
smiles replaced with turmoil and tears.
A cacophony of terror pounds again
death falling like deadly winter rain,
sky darkened by the heaviest lead
terror and destruction shower overhead.
Whistles blowing signalling the call
over the top they go one and all,
brave soldiers walking into slaughter
fall swiftly into bloodied mud and water.
Thousands felled by bullet and shell
where they lay, we may never tell
lives extinguished like a simple flame
thickened mud, so many soldiers claims.
Fog lifts and horrors become crystal clear
so many thousands have paid so dear
in no-man’s land and every trench
heavily hangs deaths enveloping stench
Youthful soldiers once fresh-faced naïve
now lie silent no breath to breathe,
snow lies soaked with rich red blood
where brave soldiers once proudly stood.
Blood red poppies grew in Flanders Fields
To shell and mortar they would not yield.
Symbols of hope amidst turmoil and despair
Fragile beauty within a land laid bare.
Beneath a dark and dismal leaden sky
Among the poppies the dead did lie.
In no man’s land beneath mire and water
Stricken down amid bloody slaughter.
Muddied battle scarred fields, now green
Stones of white, memorials to the unseen.
Blood red poppies growing wild and free
Amidst those who gave their lives for me.
Red poppies worn by both young and old
Symbolise blood shed by the known and unknown.
Despite the memories of suffering and pain
We must vow, they did not die in vain.
One hundred years on from Armistice day
millions gather, their respects to pay,
to those who died in the Great War
and who sadly walk this earth no more.
Some brave soldiers were later found
now they lie at peace in sacred ground,
in row upon row as though on parade
epitaphs on gravestones time cannot fade.
Thousands visit to remember & pay respects
heads bowed in silence standing tall and erect,
are voices of the dead whispering on the breeze
or is it the gentle hum of bumble bees?
There are cemeteries both great and small
each has a cross of sacrifice standing tall,
a stone of remembrance calls to one and all
reminding us they liveth for evermore.
Others lie within woods, ditches and fields
mother earth, their bodies not yet willing to yield
lying somewhere peacefully beneath pastures green
sadly their graves may remain unknown, unseen
They lie not in cemeteries with headstones or flowers
but their names are etched on memorials and towers,
once muddied battlefields are now turned to green
but retain graves which remain unknown, unseen
Many many thousands lie where they sadly fell
their lives stolen by bullet, mortar or shell,
we cannot visit them to stand by their grave
but we can remember how much they gave.
Millions kissed their loved ones a fond goodbye
not knowing in foreign fields they’d one day lie,
but they walk beside us on this centenary day
in our hearts and thoughts they must always stay.
The millions who fought bravely in the Great War
are now long gone and need fight no more,
instead they now march to a more joyous tune
watching and waiting till we join them one day soon.
As strains of the Last Post echo on this poignant day
in contemplative silence we enter and must stay,
for two minutes of our time is little for us to give
to remember their sacrifices, made so we could live.
Fields now fragrant, lush and green
oh what sights they must have seen,
all now lies calm, silent and still
where once battles raged on yonder hill.
I walk the paths in contemplative thought
thinking of the terrible slaughter wrought,
each step follows brave soldiers gone before
I try to imagine the carnage they saw.
Whilst I walk the path I am all alone
all around lie multiple memorial stones,
commemorating those so cruelly slain
and in a grave may not of been lain.
Voices whisper down through the years
echoing tales of turmoil and tears,
silence hangs heavy all around
as I walk upon this sacred ground.
Thousands would have marched this way
so many would not see till end of day,
many would be stretchered back again
through mud, snow and bloody rain.
We walk beside those who’ve gone before
their presence felt deeply by all,
trace their footsteps in Flanders Fields
remember how truth shall never yield.
It’s hard to imagine these fields of green
devastation, horror and pain have seen,
do not rush, please walk careful and slow
in the footprints created a century ago.
David Mathers
Poet
© Copyright. All rights reserved.