To War he was called in 1914,
This beautiful young lad, barely eighteen.
To battlefields, so far from home,
He, with his comrades, but still so alone.
With smells of sulphur, cordite and iron,
They fought in a world that was so foreign.

His hopes and his dreams now so far away,
Each night, and most days in his mind he would pray.
To see loved ones again, and a world made better,
His tears would fall, like men, on his letters.
People he missed, old friends and new,
Would haunt his thoughts all the days through.

The years would pass by like thieves in the night,
Were his eyes closed when they dropped out of sight?
So many had died of their wounds or been gassed,
He’s told it’s 1916, two years have gone past.
No end can he see to this war filled with sorrow,
Would he ever see his home, or even tomorrow?

One day the guns stop, he knows not why,
Some say its Peace, all heave a great sigh.
All look back to see a land, ruined and burnt,
Covered with dead, what, have we learnt?
So many, now lay, in those fields far away,
Alone no more, but with friends and comrades.

Now he’s returned, not broken but scarred,
His body grown old, his mind so marred.
His life would now change, his hopes so high,
But his thoughts fly back to those fields where friends lie.
All in that war thought they were right,
But did they not think of this world’s hopeless plight.

Many years had passed by when I told my Grandad,
We’re learning about The Great War, he just looked so sad.
I said I was sorry if I’d upset him so,
He had never spoken of those things long ago.
I gave him a hug and said,“Please don’t cry”,
“I was Eighteen back then,” was his only reply.