The early morning mist drifts silently across 
the freshly ploughed and seeded fields, 
from one ridge to the next hopping birds
are seeking their routine day-break feast.

Along the lane pressed in tarmac the carrion
is being picked apart by hungry crows 
who also keep a watchful eye 
for speeding traffic and hunting foxes.

The dawns early sunshine starts slowly 
burning away the mist and in nearby fields 
the blood red poppies awake and stand tall
on their green and strong supporting stems...

but in these green fields of times long past
the mist was smoke and gas, the furrows
craters, the seeds were shells and the crows
were rats as big as cats and the carrion was 
the Johns, the Daves, the Jims and Jacks...

A trumpet fanfare,
the bull full of life runs in,
a ring of arches held by columns,
tiers of seats rise high,

in the shaded part,
the coolest place
away from the midday sun
they´re cheering in fine suits,

the bulls bloodied back
is burned black and baked dry
in an unforgiving scorching sun
and blood stained sand
saps his life,

sheer exhaustion, tormented
worn and wounded,

the matador poses
with sword held high
in a glittering suit and
sparkling pink socks,

it´s the same with the fox,
the murdering *******
feel it´s acceptable
if they dress up.... for the ****.

Seventeen, looking out to no man’s land
changed forever his heart now hard as stone
since stepping on a blood drenched beach of sand,
his boyish looks now lost, his smile a frown.
His father lied to get him his command
he said the boy was twenty and well read,
and here surrounded by such evil things
to the devils table he will be fed.
Waiting for the enemy to appear
from trenches where they too are serving kings,
and in this hell hole, nothing but despair,
the bodies from both sides rot and decay,
stripped of their dignity, their hearts laid bare,
and mothers rue the day they went away.

What It Was Like
( In The Trenches )

Sandbags riddled with bullet holes made up
the parapet, and barbed wire protected the
trenches which were waterlogged knee deep in
mud and stinking from overflowing cesspits.

Every soldier was infested with lice and from
this, many were suffering the severe pains of
trench fever. The cold wet and unsanitary
conditions were causing trench foot, this in
a lot of cases led to amputations.

Over the top "No Mansland" an inhospitable
wasteland of craters and blackened tree stumps.
The burnt out remains of buildings added to the
eeriness of this desolate hell on earth.

Brown and black rats in their thousands
were feeding on the bodies of the dead,
which were then exposed from their shallow graves.
The air was filled with the smell of cordite
and the sickening odour of poisonous gas.

Death was the trenches companion day and night
from the snipers bullet, artillery bombardment,
gas and disease. That’s what it was like.

So was it any wonder that on that Christmas morning
the troops from both sides laid down their arms
and walked out into no mansland, shaking hands,
exchanging cigarettes and chocolate, showing
photographs of their families, and wishing each
other a “ Merry Christmas ”
and guess what, they even played football.

“Oh! Son it´s good to have you home
c´mon in, there´s a fresh brew on the stove,
we´ve missed you and we´ve worried so
did you get all our letters sent with love?”

Your rooms just as you left it, lad
c´mon in, I´ll get a dinner on,
your Dad will be home shortly, lad
he tells everyone he´s proud of you, our son.

What´s it like, the trenches, lad
and what´s it like this place they call the Somme,
it´s been a year you´ve been away
how long´s  this madness going on.

Sorry to hear about your friend, lad
and about the way he met his end,
we keep praying for your safety, son
and for this ****** war to end.

Sit down and take your boots of son
I´ll go and bring your slippers down,
how´s your brew, is it strong enough
Oh! Lad, it´s so good to have you home.

Mrs Linton´s boy´s, John, and Dave
they won´t be coming home,
she got the telegrams this morning
must be the twentieth in this town.

You seem to be much taller, son
and your features seem much harder now,
you have the look of a man about you, lad
with those troubled lines upon your brow.

Did you get the cakes we sent, lad
and the gloves and socks we made,
do they feed you well over there, lad
come and help me get the table laid”.

“I´m only home for two weeks, Ma
then it´s back to the front for me,
it´s good to be back home again
I´ve really missed your cups of tea.

Our Regiment was two hundred strong, Ma
and now we´re down to seventy-three,
it´s hell living in the trenches, Ma
I´ve seen things young men should never see”.

Four months later, Ma received a telegram
the sixtieth in the town,
her lad is missing in action
and his remains have not been found.

“C´mon in, I´ve made a nice strong brew, Pa
it says our lad´s not coming home,
it was delivered here this morning, Pa”
and then the pair of them broke down.

Tom Balch  ©

Now Harry it seems, has lost the plot
and said goodbye to his Royal lot.

Greta´s gone home, to isolate
Cos, Corona virus, won´t abate.

The bulk buying selfish, empty the store
even though they´re told, there is plenty more.

Branson has given, his workers the axe
he wants billions from, the payers of tax.

Social distance and lockdown rules
are being ignored, by arrogant fools.

People are dying, hundreds each day,
thank the co-vidiots, for not staying away.

Sheila Oakes, the mayor of Heanor,
said  Boris deserves, the virus and more.

What a month it has been, for idiots and fools
those tossers and morons, breaking the rules.

What about good news, I hear you say,
what about something to brighten our day.

Well what about this one, it reads this way,
a ninty year old woman, survived covid 19, today.

The medics are working frantically
to stem the flow of blood,
sterile dressing’s crimson red
as they fight to stop the flood,
a boy just barely twenty
blown to pieces by a mine,
in a country far away from home
his life’s now running out of time.

“And the men back home who sent him there
they just don´t give a toss,
Cos there´s more where he has come from,
his death to them is not a loss”

The medics have not slept for days
as they tend the constant stream
of the wounded, blind and dying
amidst the crying and the screams,
the Quartermaster’s ordered
another batch of body bags,
plasma, blood and dressings,
and for the coffins, another twenty flags.

“And the men back home who sent them there
they just don´t give a toss,
cos their agenda´s more important
than the counting of the cost”