Battlefield
Many seasons have come and gone since the frightful battle.
Eerie calm pervades the field that knew the musket's rattle.
The verdant plain where once the blood of youth was spewed,
Has healed its battle scars - nature's grandeur again renewed.
O'er the rolling hills where the machines of war once trod,
Marble stones now stand honoring those who lie beneath the sod.
On that hallowed ground, gallant men forfeited limb and life,
Bravely facing their Armageddon to the beat of drum and fife.
"Press on, comrades, Press On!" was their battle cry.
Marching shoulder to shoulder, some to live, some to die.
Ten thousand souls sleep awaiting Gabriel's clarion call,
For the final calling of the roll and to shed their funereal pall.
Veterans return to the field where with the foe they clashed.
They weep o'er their brother's graves, completely unabashed.
Some bring their grandsons to show them the futility of war,
Praying they will never suffer the hell on earth that they bore.
According to local lore (albeit warrior friends or foes),
'Tis said that where a soldier fell, there a flower grows.
The plaintive notes of "Taps" echo o'er the field at close of day,
To honor the courageous heroes who lie 'neath sacred clay.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
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