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.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (1914 by David Wood )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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