Flanders Field Memorial

Before the flag-draped altar humbly kneeled,
Once more we pay respects at Flanders field;
We hear the somber sermon and the knell
And praise those loyal men who flocked to hell.
How hard for those whom statesmen’s folly dooms,
Their destiny betrayed in cold gray rooms,
The doors to which are closed, debate concealed,
And every door just leads to Flanders field.

The trip took days, another bleak November,
All for these scant dull seconds to remember,
Remember what we never even knew,
For they are gone, those last remaining few,
Who heard the blasts, saw healthy youngsters blown
To clumps of flesh and brain and splintered bone,
With nothing left to lay upon the shield
To bring a Spartan home from Flanders field.

But home some came, with tales they never told,
Took up their mundane callings and grew old,
Though waking still in time-mistaken fright
And hearing cries of terror in the night;
Or silently remembering the cost,
Of anguish gained for friends and comrades lost;
For those who lived bore wounds that never healed,
As much as those who fell in Flanders field.

This modern world would leave them so perplexed;
We don’t write verse these days, we simply text;
We seldom hear a patriotic word,
And yet, we’re not so numb we can’t be stirred:
We still fight wars that no one understands,
On distant isles, in far exotic lands,
Where poppy crops produce a deadly yield,
Though no one there has heard of Flanders field.