God be grateful for the poets sat within the trenches.
In trepidation sitting on the grounds so shallow.
Nowhere be there animals grazing in these fields.
These fields all full up with war.
For they left poetic memoirs of days gone by.
Days when many died.
There was no paradise awaiting.
Swirling smoke and cannon fodder.
Wrapped beneath the sullen moon.
Sassoon, Owen and Hodgson.
Poets give feeling like none could ever do.
Walking down the hillside.
In England, just a pleasant walk.
This was no place for summer day strolls.
The dragons fire their fluency in a language all men understood.
Enthusiastic majors told these boys that killed or be killed.
Powerful war cradle spoke out loud.
The cradle where the dead lads slept.
The scarlet crippled carpet lined with uncomprehending eyes.
The sun still shone in all her beauty.
But in their eyes the world was black.
God pray bless the poets in all the wars before and now.
To all war ridden poets.
A smile, an acknowledgement and most of all a heart bound bow!
(C) Livvi