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April has come but March still lingers, this is the reality of the east winds,
April and May, a the time for poets, as they write off the tyranny of reality,
Fickleness and uncertainty, has always been the character, a changing climate,
Who would dare to stand up, and blame the seasons for their ancient character.

Who would blame the changing climate that has produced such men as Englishmen,
Men whose science, literature and enterprise have become monuments of progress,
And if our springs are uncertain we enjoy the finer days when warm sun shines,
We dismiss our dislikes we pretend they don't exist, but pretending is shallow.

Can we dismiss the scale of unprecedented casualties that fell in the Great War,
To many thousands of soldiers buried on battlefields in single or shared graves,
Leaving soldiers where they fell with a simple marker and simple, brief details,
Did brave men die a simple death, in simple circumstances, no! Each has a story.

Women stood in streets of Britain handing out white feathers to men in civvies,
Men who owned land bullied their workers to fight to take a one way trip to hell,
Pulpit thumping Sermons delivered in sacred places, men felt guilty so they went,
But nobody would ever understand the brutal hell, the brutal fear, brutal deaths.

It's easy to be patriotic while sitting by a warm fire after a well cooked meal,
It's easy to fight a bitterly cold battle while hoeing edges on a hot summer day,
It’s easy to write a newspaper calling others cowards while working nine to five,
And it's easy to bang a fist at mass on a Sunday while roast beef waits indoors.

An unknown man lays wounded in no mans land, a life is nearly over his heart shot,
His thoughts are of pure anger and bitter hatred, he has been to hell but not back,
He rolls onto his side to see if he knows any of the fallen, a companion in death,
His eyes are dim and he cannot see anymore but feels some comfort from warm blood.

He hears whistles, from a long way off, it reminds him of the train that took him,
An iron beast that steamed furiously into a packed station, the slamming of doors,
His loved ones and his sweetheart waved and ran along side his moving window seat,
He was so proud his clenched fist held on to the kings shilling his hand sweating.

Dying in a sea of mud will go unforgiven, does hell wait to revenge his savagery,
He wants no help, he wants no pity he has done this to others it is now his turn,
Life slowly drains away he smiles at least this day will go never to return again,
And Kipling came to mind, 'If any question why we died. Tell them because our fathers lied.
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