From dry course sand and ashes felled quiet
Hands of many reach out consumed in pains
Hold silent desire or boasting of riot
Help is but abandon bragging blood stains
Eyes seeing problems where prone hands yet shift
Minds know of solving so ready to judge
Apathy fills hearts, where villains yet lift
Heroes in disguise discard their last grudge
Ivory stained polish towers of gold
Guarded walls protect the sinners of sloth
Their ignorance is fashion worn so bold
As agony blindness bans them of growth
Castles remain huge though purpose does rot
History rings out those keen too care not
Laura Steel ©2015
The match of howling metal shrills and screams,
the march of feet sink, metal clink, ‘cross mud.
Whistles are blown! The order – thousand teams
do charge. Rolling thunder, the deafen thud.
A barrage, into sunken gullied home.
The panic, fear and death, some-things to dread.
Lucky shot? Maybe planned? – it pierced a dome.
A friend – no brother! Cut down in stead.
Years have passed, the fields have become vibrant,
yet we know, why they remain so redden.
One must not forget: something so violent,
now we march, with hearts forever leaden.
As an act of remembrance, we fell our own head.
If only to fame, our beloved dead.
Laura Steel © 2014