The Glorious Dead

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 didn’t seem so glorious to be dead.


1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “The Glorious Dead

  1. We call them heroes now, but none of them wanted to be there, poor sods. Lovely tribute, Diane.


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