Passchendaele (Autumn 1917)
Blind, wide open, eyes.
Dripping poppy petal tears.
Crimson rivers flow.
Fields transformed to mud.
Deep cut trenches scar the earth.
Wounds that will not heal.
Gas clouds drift from hell.
Death exhaled in fetid breath.
Lost boys fall like flies.
Ghosts haunt no mans land
searching for their bitter souls
in butchered bodies.
Finding empty shells,
Saturday 24th May 2014 11:50 pm
Slamming Flies (Gallipoli – 5th June 1915)
Arriving at the Dardanelles
guns flashing, the sound of rifle fire.
they heaved our ship right up to the shore.
We sat there waiting for the dawn
And saw a big marquee
that made us think of village fetes.
We all rushed to it
like boys going to a circus
but found it all laced up.
Unlaced and opened, It was full of corpses.
Wednesday 21st May 2014 7:23 pm