I am thinking of our glorious past
with heart ablaze and tears that last.
My mind dwells on the fields of gold and green,
still virgin in the budding, nascent spring.
I contemplate the memories of the glories past;
now faint and faded, almost gone.
Sienna photos, framed in sepia tones
a century of dust has landed on.
I am thinking of my grandfather,
who marched with others clothed in green,
to Passchendaele, the Somme, Verdun,
their buttons glinting brassy, in the morning sun.
I hear the clatter of the horses bridles,
and the
boys together, marching from the fields and colliery;
The jokes and coarse humour, the nervous laughter;
Young men forged together in their camaraderie.
I am thinking of our glorious past,
the Empire in its great majestic might,
feeding young lives, systematically and sure
as raw meat and sinew, bone and blood
into the ravenous jaws of the machine of war.
Steve Wheeler © 9 November, 2021
