FLANDERS FIELDS

[Maureen K Clifford]

FLANDERS FIELDS



An old man now, bent and frail – skin like parchment – hands that trembled,
eyes misted blue with age. Watery or perhaps teary from remembering
old mates. Those young lads from country towns who fought so bravely -
Fearless larrikins, who fought and died and offered their comradeship far from home.

As he looked across the wild flower meadow he remembered it as it was.
Pock marked with shell holes with the traces of gas still in the air,
coils of barbed wire, sharp, snaggy, impenetrable - festooned with bodies
Khaki and red – caught just like the wool on the fences back home.

But there the distant horizons stretched into infinity – the air was crisp and clean,
mellifluous bird -song permeated the air, and the gentle sounds of ewes calling to lambs
as water trickled down the gully into the creek bed below was calming and soothing.
At home he found the peace he craved – respite from the memories.


He didn’t want to remember the battle fields of France ablaze with red poppies,
but every year he did – the unbidden memories creeping into his head,
the tremors shaking his old bones. He was soldiering on – but longed for peace.
For the world, for himself and for those who rested now in wild flower meadows.


Maureen Clifford © 11/11