I hope nobody minds,but I have taken the liberty of posting a war poem I wrote dedicated to the fallen.
The Somme 1915 - 1918
All is quiet now, in soft meadows and fields of verdant green, save the lark, who tumbles down from mournful skies, and sprinkles her sad lullabies; on unknown graves of soldier boys, in whose hearts the poppies bloomed, when indiscriminate guns had boomed. The whistles had blown, blown in splitting ears, and blown apart their promised years; where this mother earth had given up her dead, and stained her sucking black mud red. They were fathers,sons husbands,lads, stumbling toward reluctant guns, where doomed family trees, in trench-foot boots, fell down and slept among the roots. July 2012
Thank you to each one of you. Its one of three poems I've written specifically about WW1 though I've written others about war in general. I find that with WW1 as my subject matter,inspiration is never in short supply because of the sheer scale of the tragedy and a testament to the futility and waste of young lives that WW1 has become. God forbid it should happen again.
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Me too greg. Lit a candle too.
Fishy - that's the real horror of it all - what it did to the people who survived.
I live in west central Scotland - not where that photo is...
A while of candlelight contemplation here too.
RIP, Dad.
Half the road seemed to have put a light in the window as I did and they went out just after eleven, we remember them.
Frank.
I hope nobody minds,but I have taken the liberty of posting a war poem I wrote dedicated to the fallen.
The Somme 1915 - 1918
All is quiet now, in soft meadows and fields of verdant green, save the lark, who tumbles down from mournful skies, and sprinkles her sad lullabies; on unknown graves of soldier boys, in whose hearts the poppies bloomed, when indiscriminate guns had boomed. The whistles had blown, blown in splitting ears, and blown apart their promised years; where this mother earth had given up her dead, and stained her sucking black mud red. They were fathers,sons husbands,lads, stumbling toward reluctant guns, where doomed family trees, in trench-foot boots, fell down and slept among the roots. July 2012Oh well that came out well
Fishy that was very moving, you have a talent
Fishy - the board does that to spacing etc, but the scansion is there when you read it
A lovely, moving poem ... thank you.
Gardening in Central Norfolk on improved gritty moraine over chalk ... free-draining.
Quite beautiful, Andy.....thank you!
Thank you to each one of you. Its one of three poems I've written specifically about WW1 though I've written others about war in general. I find that with WW1 as my subject matter,inspiration is never in short supply because of the sheer scale of the tragedy and a testament to the futility and waste of young lives that WW1 has become. God forbid it should happen again.