Some Made it Home
Wheat crops roll out endlessly,
France across to Rome,
interspersed with monuments,
battles fought out far from home.
Clustered on a hill slope
in regimental lines, remembrance
crosses clearly mark
those didn’t make it home.
Tended lawns and garden,
guides describe the battle plan
as every paddocks horrors
told across this gentle land.
Shellfire ripped asunder,
trench warfare first-hand,
smashed by war’s mailed hand.
Armistice rolled slowly fore,
decisive battles plot the course,
farmers plough along the trenches,
reshaping bombed out cratered stretches.
Harmony returns at last,
sign posted by long lines of crosses,
in regimental fighting squares,
poised on hillsides gazing out.
Missed the ride, some made home.
Buy my novel “The Ute”