The gravel path has led me through the wood
where moonlight whispers down between the trees;
I tighten frosted scarf and snowy hood
as trickling woodland brooks begin to freeze.

No music left from any songbird throat;
there's no trace of the starling or the thrush.
Sharp, piercing wind comes lashing at my coat
while hawthorn hedges twist with blackthorn bush.

The oaks have rampant ivy taking hold as frigid breaths remain the only sound;
a screeching owl disturbs the silent cold
which brings the ice that coats the barren ground.

With sodden gloves I brush flakes from my sleeve,
and with a glance towards the sky, I leave.

Lying in my cosy bed,
I can't drift to sleep.
Curtains drawn, I stand and gaze
in to night so deep.

Wind prowls through my old oak tree;
branches creak and moan;
ice is inching up the path,
glinting from the stones.

Air from heavy midnight breaths
lands across the glass;
clouds obscure a waning moon -
frost forms on the grass.

Snow has dusted garden tops.
Peering down, I squint;
in the finest sprinkled flakes,
boots have made new prints.

Mine are drying by the fire
with my scarf and cloak;
footsteps from the caller trudge
down towards the oak...

Fraying rope winds round the bough
over toppled chair;
nothing in the garden moves.
Frozen still, I stare.

From an old tree's groaning branch
where the bluebirds sang
just above the hawthorn hedge,
I can see him hang.

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



©

There's something in the woods I fear
As darkness starts to grow
I never liked to venture here
Ways home, I do not know

The frost down here I thought had thawed
Upon the beaten track
But ivy there has slowly clawed
Now dark is at my back

The sunlight was a hand to me
That reached down through the gloom
But now the only light I see
Is dripping from the moon

The darkness tumbles like a mist
Light only gasps and flees
As midnight crawls and turns and twists
And stalks me through the trees

A silence from the fog has spread
A silence dour as death
I only hear my fearful tread
Beneath my icy breath

A blackened aura stands astride
This deep midwinter night  
And lost, it drowns me like a tide
Alone in woods at night...