The Playing Fields Poem by John Scully
The Playing Fields
Out of muddied pasts
and ninety years on
no guns, no blame
only prayers and dog-eared verses
and for what?
Crosses, sepulchered in pain
grown weary over time,
pray silent in the still air.
And crimson fields
bereft of stomping, stamping feet
of boys and men
flower each Spring,
while underneath the men of Picardy
dream of England still.
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4/19/2024 6:26:27 AM # 1.0.0.1119
