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.