THAT FUTILE WAR by Arthur Cole

Items in this story:

Hell on earth was Flanders Field,



slaughtered men, who would not yield.



The Western Front, that futile war,



soldiers killing, so much gore.



Bodies broken, turmoil minds,



scars for life, it did enshrine.



A maze of trenches, protect the living,



wire barbed, so unforgiving.



The Holy Grail was no man's land,



over the top, suicidal commands.



Conditions, not fit for man, or beast,



shelling, gas did hardly cease.



A war of attrition, like chess, stalemate,



from day to day, not knowing their fate.



Mustard, chlorine, phosgene gases,



shrouded the front, choking the masses.



Armed with rifle, bayonet, grenade,



brave men ordered, duly obeyed.



Lions led by donkeys, it's been said,



commands given, leaving thousands dead.



Ypres, Passschendaele, now history,



misery, heartache their legacy.



In Flanders Field, those brave men lie,



poppies they bloom, then darken and die.

 

Copyright Arthur Cole 2016 (43)

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