On a late September morning
I gaze across a French field,
A blanket of mist rests lightly
On the land.
Amongst the mist,
I spy
A line of ghostly figures,
Each drifting silently,
Blindly,
With a hand on the shoulder
Of the spectre in front.
A line of lost souls
Searching for home.
An indifferent sun rises,
Burning off the mist,
I view a lush, verdant landscape,
Littered with indentations,
Where, One hundred years before,
Angry guns roared.
Sending clouds of earth,
And body parts
High into a watching sky,
Only to fall again
As human rain.
I see the occasional poppy
Blood red,
As previously these fields
Were drenched in blood,
And echoed with the cries of boys
For distant mothers.
Busy farmers,
Still plough up
Long lost bones,
That search for light,
And home.
Every year
We hold remembrace celebrations
For these lost boys,
We remember their sacrifices,
That were not sacrifices,
For choices they had not.
Then we go home and forget,
While they walk the fields
For eternity,
Searching for home.
As I scan this field
My heart is heavy.
I cry for these lost souls
And I burn inside
With anger,
For those who will not learn.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
