The Shadow of the Poppy

by Emily Edwards

  mud rising from its organ fills my nostrils without sound.

  I sense the rush of fear – interpreted in kind,

  as the cacophony of voices retreats within my mind.

  Violent, putrid, wasteful – a mind turned inside out,

  the blaring of the trumpet, it’s marching call shouts.

  Unsheathe the swords of lightning, hold the flag aloft,

  sing the praises of the thousands; now in battle lost.

  Think of those that mourn their passing, a sigh that falls alone -

  to this prison of disaster, where my heart yearns for home.

  I cannot in words alone, describe the foul scented gore -

  where body after body slipped its mortal chains so raw.

  The tears that fill these fields of blood – whatever battle name given,

  will induce the pen to write a name of the brave, and the driven.

  Ӝ

  This earth will not be my prison, this soil will not embrace -

  this soul in perfect slumber – that treads from dread to grace.

  The Bullet

  Like lightening flash it left the gun

  ferocious speed in passing

  the velocity it entered my head

  the midday sun repressing.

  There was not time to think of ought

  to seek a sheltered hollow

  I lay upon a cratered bed

  of churned up mud, and bloody track

  on this field of sorrow.

  Ӝ

  Darkness is my companion -

  Light my everlasting salvation

  Healing Hands

  Soft the hand that strokes my brow,

  Calm the voice that speaks,

  Crisp the apron brushes-

  deftly through my sleep.

  Whisper low – whisper strong

  The words I long to hear,

  "Son, I am here,

  In my arms you are safe -

  Let your head rest,

  On a heart overflowing

  As love comes home to nest".

  Dusk gathers round me

  The smell of death is in the air -

  Scrubbed flesh my fingers claw,

  as the bandage clasps my hair.

  Whisper low – whisper strong

  The words I long to hear,

  "Son, I am here,

  In my arms you are safe -

  Let your head rest,

  On a heart overflowing

  As love comes home to nest".

  Drawn from the battlefield

  Strong arms in the midst of hell

  Willing me from dark to light -

  Escape the reapers bell?

  Whisper low – whisper strong

  The words I long to hear,

  "Son, I am here,

  In my arms you are safe -

  Let your head rest,

  On a heart overflowing

  As love comes home to nest".

  Mam, the night is gathering

  Although the sun is high

  Sweet face, forever remaining

  In my night, and in my day.

  Pity My Soul

  for it is naked -

  torn apart, and left to rot,

  the decency of burial

  plays no part on this ravaged plot.

  I am dead,

  shot by the hand of a boy-

  like me – a sniper they say,

  a trained killer;

  mind twisted from the day.

  Death has no regard for age,

  where the

  horror of this field

  will be displayed by hands untarnished -

  with a history to yield.

  I walk into the darkness

  without fear -

  or sad repute -

  I wish to be free -

  run wild through fields anew -

  flowers, sweet scented grass -

  drenching my feet in the early morning dew.

  No more -

  instead, I will drink salt laced water -

  tears of sorrow,

  as I share your pain -

  join your memories -

  and follow your footsteps.

  For hero I am not -

  but a cog in a large machine -

  the fatality of men’s planning -

  a number on the page -

  a name on a list -

  a burden to my heart.

  Dressed in grace -

  I take your hand -

  bless your love -

  your wonder and awe -

  say ‘Goodbye’ from a man of war.

  Epitaph

  A scrap of land, a muddy pile

  is this the vault my end will choose -

  the grass so charred, the smell so dense

  as heaven and earth with flesh shall fuse.

  No cross on top, no box beneath

  jarred bones, scarred tissue, the soil embrace-

  my brother and I lay top to toe

  A river of red surrounds this place.

  No flowers will adorn the gaping hole

  no weeping mother visits to mourn -

  darker than the carefree womb

  from whose tenderness I was born.

  Piles of stench are littered high-

  some poor Tommy’s shattered dream-

  embracing nought but the evening sky

  he sleeps in a blood-filled stream.

  A prayer that lingers in the night-time air

  a sigh for youth and reason -

  a tear for a son whose laid to rest

  in this war stained hell of a season.

  Fanfare

  Blood red-

  bleeding-

  The fields of Flanders’ spew,

  In the wind the poppy heads blowing

  Salute the dying man

  Just a boy -

  youth manifests -

  The love his eyes disguise,

  As slow the sunset settles

  Over painful captured land.

  Red lips-

  moving-

  A name his voice defines,

  A mother, lover, companion

  Steals death’s hovering time.

  Gorged lashes -

  Closing -

  Sweeping low on pallid cheeks,

  As into the realms of eternity

  The soldier of war will creep.

  I Cried Tonight My Friend

  I cried tonight my friend

  sobbed -

  for a life that had passed -

  a moments recollection

  in a day full of rushing and grasp.

  I cried tonight my friend

  for a time-

  never to be-

  when two companions of the soul

  trod a path in life, and the pathway grew cold.

  I cried tonight my friend

  as I thought -

  of two brave troopers -

  in a country far from home,

  where eyes and ears of unknown hearts -

  took part in a battle we feared.

  I cried tonight my friend

  for a love -

  gone forever -

  on a battlefield in a strange speaking land

  where not one human kind offered a hand.

  I cried tonight my friend

  for two boys -

  grown into men -

  the days that we shared

  together -

  and the prayer we could do it again.

  Whisper My Name

  Whisper my name in the dew of the dawn -

  say it with love and longing -

  dance with my shadow in the mid-day sun

  when your heart is throbbing -

  meditate awhile as afternoon clouds

  roll on the distant horizon -

  the sound of the wind, the lap of the sea,

  carry me to you, and you to me.

  Remember my pain in the heat of Summer

  as bees buzz rou
nd and about -

  lay with me as the dusk of eventide beckons,

  and the breeze wafts the flowers without -

  bind us together in the joy of sweet music,

  fill your heart abundantly,

  regress to a time

  where happiness called,

  and the bells of harmony chimed.

  On the sands of life, in the fullness of time

  cast my memory... forever seeking -

  bid me come at the midnight hour

  from a world of recollecting -

  then, as you lie in slumber deep

  I will touch your finger tips

  hold your gentle loving face to mine,

  and kiss... the trembling lip.

  A Soldier’s Rest

  A mound of earth, far from home

  my own paradise given-

  A monument to a son in war-

  sleep the sleep forever driven.

  I hear the thunder as I fall

  sense the mangled bones I cover-

  Pain, that trickles like a waterfall

  stem the tears that hover.

  Black the cold surrounding me,

  life that’s eager to let go-

  memories of a face still haunting

  in a place I used to know.

  Battle over, battle won,

  feet this field has left undone-

  faced its beauty, displaced by war

  a mangled mess,

  walks through death’s door.

  Years from now the grass will grow

  hide the brutal fight that flowed-

  beckon to a younger soul

  the victory a war bestowed.

  I ask for every footstep

  that walks this well mown field

  think kindly on this patch of grass;

  a memory it will yield.

  Ӝ

  The Shadow of the Poppy

  Beneath the shadow of the poppy

  I gave my last breath -

  I had witnessed Hell,

  trod its path -

  knocked on the gate -

  fell before it’s thunder.

  War machines that never ceased,

  the booming guns, the trumpet call -

  the ravaged earth, churned and charred.

  butchered bodies mangled -

  barbed wire – teeth of steel -

  corpses blown asunder.

  I fall within this muddy grave,

  a pile of broken minds -

  amid the bones of brothers

  fear carved in their souls.

  Bitter winds are blowing -

  the stench of rotting flesh,

  the guns keep on rattling -

  faces marked by blood.

  Poppy heads are drooping-

  as slow the sunset dies,

  whispered words of sorrow

  fill mouths chapped with pain.

  “Tomorrow it will be over”

  a paradox of war -

  for tomorrow never comes

  and light ebbs away.

  Salute -

  the field of swaying poppies -

  witnesses from that war long ago -

  Tribute -

  to the brave -

  the courageous -

  men our forebears knew.

  Letters from Home

  By Return

  Son,

  I received your letter,

  brought to me this morn,

  I feel your body trembling

  as you describe the scenes of war.

  Your siblings gather round me,

  ask if you are well-

  I tell them to be patient,

  as their fears I try to repel.

  Son,

  I feel your hand is quivering-

  of that, I am quite sure.

  Can it be the distance between us,

  or the sights and sounds of war.

  Your father’s took to reading

  whatever news at hand-

  armed with information

  says “He understands!”

  Son,

  your lot is daunting-

  I read through the love you write,

  The excitement has turned to apprehension

  as you saunter through ‘hell’s’ gate.

  I wish I could be with you

  keep you safe from the wrath of man

  but, a woman’s lot is stifled

  to the child-bed, and the pan.

  Son,

  my pride is brimming

  as for country and crown you rise-

  enter the gladiator arena,

  face the scorpion’s sting.

  By Christmas it will be over,

  On this, the commander’s word...

  you will be home in festive spirit

  a little wiser -

  yet undisturbed.

  Awakening

  I set your place at the table, put the parcel on your chair-

  The Christmas pot was boiling, for your homecoming we prepared.

  Your presence was conspicuous, as the chair was tucked

  in neat; your siblings chatted gaily as my heart sank to my feet.

  They said it would be over – “A Doddle” the term they used,

  what started out as simple, appears horrific and confused.

  My child I long to be there; bring you home whilst still a chance,

  walk the causeway of your anguish – face the devil in his dance.

  From the pit of my being, a mother’s love profound-

  stay safe my sacred bundle til the last trumpet sounds.

  Ӝ

  It came today that letter, in its envelope smart but bland,

  the crest of a war torn army was pushed into my hand.

  Tentatively I opened it, read the page that was within,

  as with joy I read your scribbling; felt the hot tears on my chin.

  So many young men had been slaughtered – wretched, battered and torn,

  from the action of an impulse, and a murder far from home.

  They say it began in Poland – others quote the radical force,

  of world- wide growing anger, from a dissident and his cause.

  I care not where it came from – only when the guns will cease,

  the flag hurled high in freedom, and my child again I see.

  My Child

  Child

  wipe the

  tear from your

  eye, dispel the darkness

  surrounding you in that black

  desolate place of war. Think… of

  home- a warm fire, laughter, a clean

  bed, the understanding of a mother. A hand

  held out in love. Discard from your mind the

  horror, and the pain. Please know in your

  hour of desperation, I am there my

  child… Think not of your lot

  as never-ending, but as a

  tread into the light

  of a new

  day, for

  all.

  Ӝ

  Your presence is the light to the next generation

  Vision

  I had a dream last night...

  vivid as the day

  bringing us together-

  in weariness and play.

  We ran the fields of England...

  plucked the flowers in meadow sweet

  forged pools of iridescent water-

  where dragonflies sneak.

  Sat and talked between us-

  of the world in wartime strife,

  sons lost to their mothers and,

  the sensitive strands of life.

  Your smile said not to worry...

  keep forever in my heart

  this day of love and beauty...

  however far apart.

  Yet my child, the end is coming -

  dark clouds above me loom,

  and the ache of distant parting -

  heralds the day of doom.

  That day my heart will sh
atter,

  the sky will turn dull grey -

  as the fiend of war comes calling -

  to bear my son away.

  My Pain

  Gone,

  are the thoughts of pride I harboured in my soul,

  for a child at war -

  that smug, arrogant satisfaction that rose above those of less

  sympathy to a war not of our making.

  I ask – what is the gun held in my child’s hand, but a key to death;

  an instrument where life is extinguished, and flesh is no more.

  I breathe the air around me -

  pray for your return – dream of a time not known when my arms can hold you.

  I scream,

  cloister my thoughts from others around me,

  feel the pain -

  rampaging through my mind – casting doubt upon my sanity;

  heckling the wisdom of those who knew better.

  I beg forgiveness – from the powers that be – powers of all faiths -

  “Oh, sweet Lord – listen to me”.

  Ӝ

  Memories are the stepping stones to another world.

  Part Two

  The Quickening

  Hands deep in soapsuds, mind away in dreams

  The knock at the door disturbed me

  Bid me answer in speed;

  The heavy thud on the wood,

  And take from the outstretched arm,

  The letter of contention

  Held by an authoritative hand.

  I wipe down my apron, pat the hair on my head

  Female signs of distraught

  My stomach in torment lay;

  Gently I rip it’s covering

  Let the paper burn my hand,

  Feel the tsunami of my grief

  Tearing my heart from its home-

  My child is displayed in black and white

  The soft flesh of love

  The arrogance of youth today;

  Has the ground for a bed.

  I stumble to the chair brought near

  Feel wood upon my legs

  The Devil’s sword pierced my side,

  As the truth I fail to take.

  “Why my child” I scream in pain

  As the abyss I try to rake.

  Parting

  My soul is heavy,

  Weighted down as air prior to a storm-

  Stripped of the emotion to feel

  Yearning for release.

  I sit, surrounded by the fire of my thoughts

  Burning with the dread of fear-

  Lost

  in the eclipse of life.