White feathers flying in the air

Passing, floating seemingly

Without a care

Unreachable, untouchable

Moving far away

Nowhere to be caught

To be bound trapped, in a snare

 

Some form an almost orderly line

Showing the anguish and the pain

Of the killing ground

A brief encounter

With barely a sound

 

A small trail of blood

Marks the spot

Where a chicken once laid

Paid for all its service with its life

Not eaten

Just beaten

It’s throat and its heart ripped out

 

But the feathers still fly

Free to roam to sail

Along the path

Through the trees

One caught on a rusty nail

Of a gate post

Pointing the way to the place

that plays host

to the fallen and the dammed

 

Fearless feathers fly across

A field

A field of supposed glory

Of a story once held as true

Repeated over and over again

 

A field of red flowers

Heads bobbing back and forth

Amongst the grain

Mark the spot of too many

Bodies to show or identify

A place, hearts and minds

 that will never be the same

 

A place where no one played chicken

Where no one counted the loss

No one wears a feather

But nearly everyone has a cross

 

Now there’s no one left

To count the feathers or the shame

No one left to make excuses

To point the finger or take the blame

 

Those who had white feathers

And those that gave them out

All are gone

Too many feathers, too many lives

Too many too count in fours and fives

 

So if you should ever find a feather

Remember those with pride

For at least you won’t have to watch the blood pour out

And your comrades fighting to survive

 

If nothing else stop and think

If anybody asks who are the cowards

And who are the brave

In a war with or without feathers surely

It’s every life that counts and should be saved