A Distant Field

 

It lies like a furrow in a distant field

an anniversary of events long since passed.

The wind blows over this foreign landscape

rustling the autumn leaves about a myriad of graves.

Valleys and hillsides stand in uniformity

with regimented lines of white headstones.

To step across this furrow or to by pass it

this our conscience will never permit.

For our kith and kin lie buried in these fields

where poppies dance as the wind commands them.

The guns have fallen silent over this vast morgue

a stillness now embalms their memory.

So long ago now, so far away in time and space

yet they remain unmoveable in memory.

Vast tracts of land cover our cherished youth

leaving not a scar but an emblem of sorrow.

From this furrow of sadness a lament can be heard

one with voices subdued which say to us.

We are here in perpetuity robbed of our youth

you are now safe as we guard the way.