Categories: War
They tell me
Birds sang in the trees
Swaying fields of barley
Red poppy- strewn
Gently swayed
In the gentle breeze.
Beautiful butterflies
Fluttered
Along the banks
Of the River Somme.
On the first of July, 1916
This tranquil landscape of splendour
Became desecrated for all time.
Thousands of young men
Victims of a war
Intended to end all wars
Fell.
Died.
Soaked the land with their blood.
Today
The undulating fields remain
Yet changed for ever.
Only white standing stones
Bear witness to the massacre
Their whiteness denying the blackness
Of that horrific time.
Birds still sing
Butterflies sip nectar again
The river continues to flow
But my grandfather
My paternal grandfather
Lies for ever buried
Soil-covered in a foreign land.
I wonder.
I ponder.
Is this why France
Is so dear to my heart?
