I’ve been doing some ancestry research over the last couple of weeks and found our family lost a couple of members in France during WWI. One was killed in action, one died of his injuries. Leonard was 24 and Edward was 19. This poem is for them.
Poppy seeds
We rise as soldiers,
taken from our beds as youths,
stripped from the warmth of family
to lands we’ve never seen,
places never heard of before,
from conversation and cosy silences
to the roar of guns, planes, bombs,
scuff of dirt, splintered wood, blind pain,
a burn of unending endurance.
We suffer it for the greater cause,
memories of loved ones we’ve left,
hiding in the bowels of the underground
and hideaways not built for this.
We charge into the face of danger
not knowing if it sees us,
not knowing if it will turn its cheek
and let us return back home.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 10, 2020
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