Poetry

IN THE TRENCH

By 16th November 2007December 9th, 2019No Comments

I sit cold, damp and wet
Tasting the smell of the crackling guns.
I am waiting for the signal
To hop over the trench
I am scared and nervous.

I can hear the signal
I am terrified and thinking of home.
My children’s lovely hugs
The smell of warm fresh bread
A frothy beer with all my friends.

And now I am here
In Flanders fields
Blood red poppies grow
Around my grave
I missed my home very much
But now I can never go back.

Alice Walker

Author Alice Walker

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