Poem

 

On the fields of Flanders in Belgium where bullets flow

 

This is where you shall go

 

Where whizz bangs are screeching past your body, struggling to get through the craters of shells where mud tries to drown you.

 

Where the horrible smell of death bodies dominates the area.

 

Hiding in the freezing cold trenches. Wearily you watched the wire, waiting for enemies to show up.

 

And shooting them till they’re nicely mowed down

 

Until one enemy was creeping up on him, like a tiger slowly catching his prey.

 

I hope you will survive the best

 

And return to home fast.

 

 

In memory of George Scott Cook   31-3-1890    --    12-10-1917