Across the realms of no-man’s land,
lie six foot, muddy, makeshift trenches,
where troops await each new command,
behind the rows of barbed wire fences.
The thirteen year old drummer boy
plays on, despite the sniper’s glare,
whilst military tanks roll on to destroy
the front-line, through strategic warfare.
Conscripted men become new fodder
for the noble cause of war,
fatalities are wide and broader,
against the canon’s mighty roar.
Those who manage to survive,
face the trauma of shell shock,
carbon monoxide, seeks to deprive
the mind, which starts to run amok.
In Flanders Field, the white tombstones
are lined by name, rank, regiment,
a resting place of sacred bones,
propped up by wreaths of sentiment.
Let us remember those that served
the Commonwealth for King and crown,
a minute’s silence must be observed,
across the land in every town.