world war one (Remove filter)
The Silent Steps.
On the horizon and blurred in passing smoke
figures move into the distant fields,
and closer the dead battleground
springs red grass blades.
Here the poet silently tiptoes, grieving,
another tear-stained handkerchief,
counting dying gasps and stealing
last words meant for a mother.
And count the words,
Place them side by side
Dead grass
Here I died
Scorched mud
Missing hand
Cou...
Thursday 7th August 2014 8:10 pm
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