Poetry

Children playing in the evening sun                                            
running around, just having fun.
Dogs chasing balls happy to play
rolling in the grass late in the day.
A couple sitting on the ground
trying not to make a sound.
Where so much happened, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.
 
This was a place long before
where men shed blood in a war.
A place of such horror and pain
where men fought and men were slain.
Living in trenches with blood stained pools
with weapons of war, their only tools.
It’s hard to imagine, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.
 
Fledgling birds are trying to fly
into the bright evening sky.
Someone there is trying to pray
children think it’s a place for play.
But you can still clearly see
where the trenches used to be.
Life is so different, than long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.
 
An old man stands on his own
he seems content to be alone.
With tears rolling down his face
haunted by memories of this place.
He was here when he was young
cold and scared carrying his gun.
When life was harsh, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.