The Flowers of the Forest
A howling gale blows along frost bitten trenches and men curl up damp and freezing,
No such thing as a real sleep, if it wasn't the cold or the noise, it would be fear,
Each man lays where he can away from the stench of death, alone with his own stench,
Gales sing through the barbed wires, we lay shivering, dreading departing darkness.
In a night daze I am home, my mother puts logs on a blazing fire it spits and cracks,
The sharp knives of the east east wind are buried in my head it aches and it itches,
My mums voice plays over that I must be careful, I laughed as we marched away hero's,
Laying deep in ditches, knowing fear deeper than man has ever known, where is my God.
Ashen faces, haunted eyes, trying hard to think of anything to stop thinking of here,
Previous bad times are now my goods times, if I ever go home I will never moan again,
As I say my prayers again on this cold bitter night, each holy word is a rasping sob,
My lips quiver as I mouth words to my Lord, my saliva falls onto frost frozen ground.
Soon bugles will blow, fewer men will stand than they did yesterday or the day before,
Each cling to life, gnarled hands frozen into bloody fists, fear and hate the new day,
My muddy brown brothers sip steaming tea, soon shells will be fired towards the steam,
Maybe one day I leave here but never forget, this I swear by the flowers of the forest.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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