They Can'T Find Home
I reposted this poem because I just ca't get those young boys out of my mind.
What have we lost? What would the world have become had they lived? Why have we not learned anything? Please read with a gentle heart for all those whose spirits are still fighting and dying even now.
they can’t find home
trees trunked as pillars
a cathedral gallery
edges my road
through french farmland
waking in mists of spring
brown arched buttresses push green
into the face of god
a somber holiness escapes,
the sound echoed
among foliage floating above
I sit to rest
and there silently arise
between rough bark
men, grey as leaf mold
approach to offer
their deaths carried gingerly
in cupped hands
taste this, our tales of mortar shelled
star burst murder
on nights yellow with gas
lungs choking closed
blown into eternity
by mined field’s crop of demise or
whining whistle of rifle spew entering
warm sacred bodies oozing life their beauty,
sweet youth gone to earth
beneath grasses where they should be
lover’s heat now
all, wander still
those blood soaked fields of mud,
noise and death
laid down
to pave a path
for old men counting green
and dreaming glory.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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