The young boy sits,

In a field of plenty,

Bugs flit in the summer sun

His whole life beckons

A world of possibility.


The teenage lad walks,

The streets familiar

His new girl by his side

Can life get better?

The future all anticipation.


The young man sits

on a barren plain

rounds like angry bees

his life on a thread

red staining foreign sand


The wiser man forgotten

by those who pass him by

spare no change to ease his pain

he has no roof no walls no food

but medals shine in sodium glare


The old man sits

In the cold grey streets

bloated and green

a rat climbs from his mouth

A hero from the war


  1. Glorious photo. Chilling words. I take it the photo inspired the poem?

    Nice to see your gloomy cynical self around 🙂

    • Umm, glad to be back,

      I got your messages but just couldn’t …

      Actually, I watched Paschendale, gave me the idea for the morbid post, then driving North from Brighton saw the field. The one and I spent a brilliant morning walking by the poppies, stunning. The two things seem to fit.

      I now have lots of catching up to do on everyone’s posts.

  2. Kumar Gautam says:


  3. Vicky says:

    Very moving, and so true of the many forgotten soldiers, not just from yesteryear either.
    I love the photo, poppies are my favourite wild flower.

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