Standing in No Man´s land, a charred post views our heroes.

The post stood alone, brittle, bereft of kindness, a peering eye.

Between the trenches it watched as man´s hubris sputtered by.

Raging courage, to quell the fears, it saw men blindly race to the fore,

Soon to be slaughtered with guts hanging in mud, terror turned inward with gore.

The post was merciless, strewn with wire, channelling a poisonous pain-filled parting,

At young men, with innocent loves tendered, who saw the light of life soon departing.

Posts, nought but wood, made a line, a christening, decorated with razor wire,

It tempted the few to glory and death, their bodies dashed, but their spirits flew higher.

There was no stopping the onslaught, the post saw them stagger forward, hope be damned.

There was no part for feigning, their hearts with shadowed courage were crammed.

Like ants, the bewildered post gazed as they raced blind into its home, No Man´s Land.

A home to agony, death, blood, and unimaginable brotherhood beyond reprimand.

Scattered around its base, arms, legs, guts and truth were hurled without doubt.

It was young twenty-year-olds whose lives destined the hubris that old politician´s flout.

The rallying cause had taken them and infused their blood to course unfettered and bold.

The same voice would leave their bodies splintered in death, mud, and bitter cold.

The post did not glare but stared in sadness, filled with pity for hearts so true.

The post watched man´s follies with no way to stop them, there was nothing it could do.

Over a hundred years later the soil is now rich with life — as death nurtures repellant mirth

But the post still stands withered, reminding men of how little we value our own worth.

Thanks for reading.

November 11 approaches. As the madness of our daily travails smothers our frantic world, we should pause to remember those who gave their lives so we may enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice.

Kamakura based writer, lover of Great Danes, vintage cars, good red wine, bonsai and the Bard

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