by | Nov 16, 2007 | Poetry | 0 comments

I sit cold, damp and wet
Tasting the smell of the crackling guns.
I am waiting for the signal
To hop over the trench
I am scared and nervous.

I can hear the signal
I am terrified and thinking of home.
My children’s lovely hugs
The smell of warm fresh bread
A frothy beer with all my friends.

And now I am here
In Flanders fields
Blood red poppies grow
Around my grave
I missed my home very much
But now I can never go back.


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