A bugle sounds reveille
on another freezing morn,
boots are frozen solid
and the coldness bites to core,
grunts and groans of tied men
forcing eyes to see,
the razor stings and mess tins sing
for steaming dark brown tea.

Weapons cleaned and loaded,
breakfast, stomachs full,
then all line up in silence
ready for the whistles call,
one last read of letter
once more kiss the photograph,
a silent prayer to calm the nerves
and with mates, an empty laugh.

Another freezing morning
that was bound to take its toll
on the brave naive and frightened,
the lads that were too young to fall,
in foreign fields frost dusted
turned red with blood from those
who knew not what the fight was for,
same on both sides... I do suppose.