Armistice

In fields where bodies, broken, fell,

Against the cold of shrapnel’s sting,

They ripped from bone by shard and shell,

With none but ravens left to sing

Of valour, scorned by choking gas

That lingers heavy on the breeze,

Of those that lie in graves en-masse,

Or those who drowned beneath the seas.

​

The herds of iron wombs, sea-gray,

That flocked to storm the ashen sands

Were rusted, showered with salt-spray,

But birthed their young onto the land.

To fear, to smoke, to greasy fires,

And whistling shots that stained skin red,

A tall man hung limp on the wires,

And on the dismal shore he bled.

​

They splashed and swam through frenzied foam,

They crashed amidst the freezing waves,

The Light Brigade charged far from home

But fell, before their pillbox graves.

Yet still the pregnant mares did sail,

To bring their children to the breach,

But under clouds of molten hail

They perished there, upon the beach.

​

See now through the scope that spies,

Held by hands which shake and sweat,

And fires now with mute surprise,

On each and every silhouette.

Watch them tumble! Watch them roll!

As if dispatched by careless hands,

The final place to rest their souls?

The bitter sludge of no man’s land.

​

And those at home who fear the planes,

Who think of loved ones on the ridge,

Must queue for food in freezing rains,

As bombs descend on London Bridge.

And here we see the crushing cost,

The point that no one can ignore,

That none can win when all have lost;

That nothing good can come from war.

​

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9rdz0y/scroll_down_please/e8ha0ur

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9rj4g2/shadow_dancer/e8hcbhl

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