1914

Married villages emptied to the call. Young single men from well-worn towns Changed from suits and flat caps to khaki. They changed their hob nailed working boots To lugging clay-sucked boots of the trenches. They marched down roads lined with Loving wives and girlfriends waiving. They marched to the slaughterhouse of Flanders fields where poppies blossomed, Their blood filled petals beckoning all who Passed by and fell to the bullet or shell. Death clinging low to the ground. Death Walking, sickle sweeping from side to side, With Death saying, 'I claim him' over and over. August 1914 was just the beginning of hell. Lions marching into the unknown and oblivion.