Poppies in Breckland
Remembering the fallen. Two Poems here composed around twelve years ago.
'The Trench',
Where is the glory of war
not here amongst blood and entrails
of comrades slain before fighting
never raising their heads above the squalor
The heaving slum full of rats and lice
And the sickly stench of death
as the shells rained down
to scatter the limbs of the cursed
Empty helmets lie in the stagnant water
heads lost in furrows of mud
only the vermin prosper here
bloated by the spoils of battle
Those left to charge wallow like hogs
waiting for the bullets to pierce them
such waste for a few yards of churned soil
the fallen sway shredded on the barbs
The romance of conflict is myth
for those that perished at hells gates
many never to sleep in an British grave
splintered bones lie restless under the plough
To those scattered on foreign shores
where now the supposed glory of war.
'The Bomber Boys',
Youths hollow eyes churning stomachs relentless stress
they pray for a swift death above
The stench of the scared fills the bombers
enclosed in the turrets
much like caged birds
The bitter numbing cold
life now out of their control
searchlights seek them out
flak clawing ever closer
A few lucky to bail out
will the parachutes fail them
those spared tread the earth once more
haunted by more empty chairs in the mess
While the brave fighter boys grab the glory
loved by warfares romantics
indeed loved by us all
But romance has no place
amongst the battle scarred heavens
where the huns spat their venom
What about the Halifaxes and Stirlings
the lumbering Wellies and proud crews of the Lancs
All unsung
this waste of life too great
to begin to contemplate
Shunned and forgotten the bomber boys
but all heroes to those that carry the debt
only whispered about those gallant young airman
who hunted the hun with bombs and guns
Our glorious dead countless bled
though many burned
for our freedom and peace
now let them rest at ease.
My own humble gratitude to those who fell, bless them all.
Poppies in Breckland
Remembering the fallen. Two Poems here composed around twelve years ago.
'The Trench',
Where is the glory of war
not here amongst blood and entrails
of comrades slain before fighting
never raising their heads above the squalor
The heaving slum full of rats and lice
And the sickly stench of death
as the shells rained down
to scatter the limbs of the cursed
Empty helmets lie in the stagnant water
heads lost in furrows of mud
only the vermin prosper here
bloated by the spoils of battle
Those left to charge wallow like hogs
waiting for the bullets to pierce them
such waste for a few yards of churned soil
the fallen sway shredded on the barbs
The romance of conflict is myth
for those that perished at hells gates
many never to sleep in an British grave
splintered bones lie restless under the plough
To those scattered on foreign shores
where now the supposed glory of war.
'The Bomber Boys',
Youths hollow eyes churning stomachs relentless stress
they pray for a swift death above
The stench of the scared fills the bombers
enclosed in the turrets
much like caged birds
The bitter numbing cold
life now out of their control
searchlights seek them out
flak clawing ever closer
A few lucky to bail out
will the parachutes fail them
those spared tread the earth once more
haunted by more empty chairs in the mess
While the brave fighter boys grab the glory
loved by warfares romantics
indeed loved by us all
But romance has no place
amongst the battle scarred heavens
where the huns spat their venom
What about the Halifaxes and Stirlings
the lumbering Wellies and proud crews of the Lancs
All unsung
this waste of life too great
to begin to contemplate
Shunned and forgotten the bomber boys
but all heroes to those that carry the debt
only whispered about those gallant young airman
who hunted the hun with bombs and guns
Our glorious dead countless bled
though many burned
for our freedom and peace
now let them rest at ease.
My own humble gratitude to those who fell, bless them all.