The field – by Richard Davies

The field now quite,

A hazy smoke drifts about,

The smell of cordite from exploding shells,

mixed with the metallic smell of blood hangs in the air,

the ground a mix of dirt and human remains,

this hell known as the hill, the death bed of 1000’s,

A battle unimaginable has raged,

men have fought like primeval animals,

hand to hand they fought,

I lay there in the mud, surrounded by mine mates and enemies,

in life we fought as bitter enemies,

in death we are one,

The last thing mine eyes see,

the blood red sunset.

.

.

.

.

.

.


.


.