I wake, and upon waking,
Springtime dawns.
I gaze upon this Flanders field,
Verdant green, kissed by a gentle breeze.
Then I remember:
A different dawn,
A cold and desolate morn.
I gaze again upon this Flanders field
Where all is pockmarked.
I shake from head
To rotting feet.
I retch and spew a stinking bile,
While my comrades join in harmony.
The sky is metal grey
As are the wretched faces
That shiver
Next to me.
No more thoughts
Of glory,
They have longtime fled,
Chased away by the gory reality.
This day will not bring sunshine,
Nor the scent of blossoming blooms.
Soon we shall walk blindly,
Into the hail of lead borne death.
All thought of home and warmth
Can find no space
Within the fill of fear
That we now feast upon.
The sound of whistles
Cold and shrill,
Calls us forward,
Duty to fulfil.
Ten steps I take
To meet this living hell,
Before I fall
Forever in this field to dwell.
Then I awake once more:
I gaze upon a Cypress tree
Whose leaves will wither,
And fall
To feed this earth, once fed by children's flesh.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
