Roses In A Lions Den Poem by Bill Mitton

Across the fields where
once a bugle played
The returning echo
of the children’s laughter.
Ground that shook to
history’s martial boot
Sings now to the small joyous
feet that tread the future.
Blessed time has thinned
The rows of marching men
Into a rainbow crocodile
of curiosity and wonder.
Now where rifle and
bayonet once held sway
A sand pit and plastic slide
Give the calling and the purpose
Nor am I sad at what I see
For things are, here at least, in order.
Children at play and learning
And wars and soldiering, held
Safe, within old men’s memories.