Come
with me dear friends
To the fields
of war,
Where boys dressed
as men gave their lives
To a land soaked
in horror
To a place where
fear turned men into boys
And courage flowed
like blood from the bodies
Shattered and
torn,
To a place where
dying cries were drowned by the
Roar of the big
guns
And bodies hung
like dirty laundry upon barbed wire
A place where
a hundred yards cost
Ten thousand
lives,
A place where
as dawn did rise from fitful night
The whistle called
for those to die,
The artist,
The postman,
The coal miner.
And over the
top they went,
Their hearts
already broken, their bodies soon to be.
When all around
did comrades fall
In answer to
the machine gun's infernal chatter,
That spoke of
death in rapid time, and raked
The lines that
went from hell to hell.
Oh, my dear friends,
See man as you've
never seen him before,
In grotesque
attitudes of death.
Look you upon
the names of sorrow
Ypres,
Passchendaele,
Mons,
Vimy Ridge,
Verdun
And countless
more and ask but one question,
What point this
war?
And when silence
finds its grace, it settles
Upon this horrid
place;
Where those that
lived returned, one by one,
Or carried their
injured brothers across the fields
Of mud and flesh,
where death had reaped so rich a crop
And where empty
eyes recalled
The horrors of
all that was done by man to man.
Where the bayonet
thrust silenced the life
And anguished
cry opened the heart of
The painter
The milkman,
The labourer.
See the lines
of sightless men, hands upon shoulders, the blind
Leading the blind
And look upon
those once wholesome boys
Who before were
with strong limb and proud poise;
Now they lie
upon the stretchers, spaces where limbs did lie.
Look upon the
dead,
Fathers, brothers,
sons and lovers, no more.
So dear friends,
come with me to the fields of war,
To a place of
white stones, where men now dead lie on parade.
See how the poppy
grows upon this silent land.
Look amidst the
shadows,
And see the ghosts
that linger in the even' call,
And listen, listen,
To the voices
of them all,
And ask yourself,
What point this
war?
Austin
Edward (Ferd) ORCHARD
©1995
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Website: copyright Alison
Orchard Hammill
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