No More The Trenches Poem by Kevin Hulme

It's no more to the Trenches
The Mud-Sodden ground,
The Playing Field of Nations
Was but death that we found.
The fearful Whistle that summons the fight,
The Shooting bright flares
That startle the Night.
I'm leaving my Brothers
Under calm foreign Skies,
In soil rich in Valour
At peace where they lie.
Immortal young Souls
Of quick Mirth and good Song,
Their Spirits now travel
With the days setting Sun.
I'll be sailing on home
From deaths Rolling Mill,
And Gas straining Lungs
That the Chemists would fill.
Onto rich covered Meadows
And full forests of green,
The patchwork of Fields
That no Carnage had seen.
And life given Corn
In place of foul Mud,
To bright clear streams
Unsullied with Blood.
We'll be riding the sea
Upon white crested foam,
To the Wives and the Mothers
That are waiting at home.
So it's goodbye dear Rheims, Picardie and Somme,
The Shell-Blasted Moonscape
Fierce hatred had done.
And it's to Hell with the Marching
And all that it's for,
Politicians and Aggressors
And to Hell with all War.