A flower grows by a grave in Etaples...
It is so still and quiet here
as autumn winds begin to swirl,
yet these blue skies once shook with sound -
that noise which rang across the world!
Soft ground beneath my feet now green,
was watered then by sweat and blood
from those who left their warm, sweet homes;
our English dead...in France's mud.
Throughout the fields now ripe with crops,
rats ran amidst the guns and hurt;
wet mires of writhing bodies who
just sat to wait for death in dirt.
Our torch they carried high aloft,
a beacon in the dark and toil -
their sacrifice has saved its light
whilst they lie here, in foreign soil.
Where men were doused like candle flames,
in saviours' footsteps...now I stand,
(and kneel amongst the stones to read)
a pilgrim in this holy land.
I've come to see my countrymen -
all those who wept and fell alone -
but they came here to give their lives,
so far from Blighty; far from home...
At once, crisp silence then is gone,
now blackbirds' song has filled the skies!
The morning sun is shining bright;
I take a breath and lift my eyes,
Flowers grow on the graves in Etaples
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