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On a dirty grey Monday morning a drizzle in the wind, a black car stopped,
From the car stepped an officer who gazed around looking for door numbers,
His head turned it fixed on a woman's house he slowly walked up to the door,
He gave three very hard knocks stood waiting, fidgeting for it to be opened.

A lady opened the door and he introduced himself he then handed her a letter,
Before she opened it he suggested going inside as it was so very cold and wet,
Standing in the warm kitchen her hands shook and she ripped at the folded note,
As she read the letter tears rolled down her thin cheeks she held onto the sink.

Her son had been killed at Flanders, the officer lied told her how brave he was,
The officer sadly looked at the floor he had done this a thousand times before,
He said no more and quietly left the house, the grieving mother sat on a chair,
She stared at the crucifix on the wall bitterly and cried as she had never before.

She could feel his ghost as a child not so many years ago so proud, when he joined,
The letter said the bugles played and drums rolled at his funeral his friends wept,
They raised the flag high the sun shone off the polished boots of the many mourners,
Had she lost two sons she would have had two letters both would have been identical,

The letter browned in a frame over the mantle piece and with time her heart healed,
Torn fields of battle became a field full of red poppies and little white crosses,
Grass grew slowly over the land, nature trying to erase history the madness forever,
There is light and dark as the days roll by, in reality it is always black as pitch.

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