To Battlefields, All Poem by Ernestine Northover

The rhythmic crunch of the marching feet,
Down the cobbled roads in the summer heat.
Soldiers in serge, so ready and willing,
Carriages on trains, their young bodies filling,
To battlefields, all, set in foreign soil,
Facing the enemy, their prepared plans to foil.
Never knowing if they would ever return
To the cosy firesides, that would invitingly burn.

With hope they travelled and strove to win,
To free this world from its sorrow and sin.
As they waved goodbye, their smiles were sweet,
But inside, each felt a shuddering heart beat.
So full of fear, yet called forward to fight
An opponent to crush, by day and by night.
Oh, What we owe to these men so fine,
Who fought with valour on hell’s frontline.


© Ernestine Northover