The whistle blows...
mud sliding under foot
clambering khaki swims from the trench
over the top!
walking slowly into the hail storm of lead

A flute plays a tune of hope
it fades to the distance as youthful courage believes in it's freedom
they live and die to serve..
but who do they serve

Only a few more yards
on into the grey, the red, the fear
the flute plays on
the minstrel boy cuts through the gloom, urging
pressing on...

In other trenches
clad in grey
young men believe in their freedom
far from the language of the men in green
they shout and speak in tones of fear
they too know they live and die to serve
but who do they serve

Generals feed on wine and brie
merriment distracts their thoughts
tin soldiers one and all
they dream of the glory of Agincourt, Waterloo, Sevastopol
no blood will stain their well manicured fingers
no mud upon shiny regimental boots

Men in red and brown they lie
crying for mothers who could not watch
who could not know
who could not heal
their blood nourishes Flanders fields
where young flowers died
and young poppies' grow

The noise of battle
a cacophony of youthful waste
so loud its eerie silence
a single shot among the many
the flute, silent, taken
silence among confusion

Bodies robbed of youth
grey? khaki?
does it matter?
a world bereft of love

The poppy sings it's own refrain
eleventh hour
eleventh day
eleventh month
in the morning breath
and at the setting of the sun
we will remember them

In memoriam of the dead on all sides of two world wars and conflicts since... lest we forget.