Josh Renshaw, Grade 9
The towering twisting fresh grass flows,
The radiant tender green of leaves,
The trunks rolled out, like a chestnut brown dough,
The low white fog pulled over us like sleeves.
The deep distant sky looks almost nearby,
Looking down to us like father and child.
The white puffy clouds cut through the deep sky,
Like friends cut through foes, nimble, fast and wild.
Crack goes the sticks; whoosh goes the trees, clean, fresh.
Kaboom goes the bomb thrown from the unknown.
The grass, now muddy pits of blood and flesh
The fog no longer white, but black as stone.
This alluring serenity no more,
All that is left is death, weeping and war.