A Letter Home

Unfolding earth marked parchment

The final song of men, heard in the plain void,

Memories of home, photographs in his garment

His duty calls, his pride vacant and destroyed,

One more line

He begins to write, our Private Lloyd.


A scribble begins, but with each shake

The ditches of the land form on the sheet,

Vibrations of the proximate artillery quake

starting to haste, the piece is incomplete,

One more line

The cold clouds loom, releasing their sleet.


Men are stirring, more he must try to carve

Blurred juniper and tawny rush, stumbling by,

The stench of dread, sympathies starve

Tenses his limbs with a lonely officer’s battle cry,

One more line

A young coward sobs his calling is nigh.


There’s a place in England, his dwelling so fine

No longer he can create and see,

The warmth of home, to him a shrine

By the conflict he is shackled as a detainee,

One more line

The inevitable has become a reality.


Our darling scrawls the events of the morn

Memories of demise ride the hard, bitter wind,

For he cannot take flight, a duty he has sworn

Upon arrival to this abyss all must have sinned,

One more line

For eternity to these fields they are pinned.


For an instant, the bells of silence ring

Tormented men slump, flow tears of red,

Death turns the trench bend, rising high to sing

Stares of fear, a sign the enemy is ahead,

No more time

An officers whistle plays the melody of the dead.


No more time.


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