The Glorious Dead
The poppies bloomed in Flanders fields that day
As blood red mud besmirched the sullen ground.
Now all too late to hope or wish or pray
cacophony of death the only sound.
And so to find our friends and brothers each
We left the dreadful hole in which we slept
From trench to pit to wire and then to breach
To serve the solemn oath that must be kept.
Our hands made slick on gore and gut and spew
Our ears turned deaf to desperation’s cries
We fought to save the men that once we knew
Or at the last to close their dying eyes.
And when the silvered moon rose overhead
It did not seem so glorious to be dead.