The Senses Of Passchendaele

• Lily Cameron, Grade 6, St John's School -
• Poetry
• 2018

Excellence Award in the 'Horizon of Dreams 2018' competition

The battle field was such a place which they never entered safe.
Once you see the poppies grow, it’s only then will you know.
Piercing shades of bloody red stand tribute to the silent dead.
Smell of rotting foe and friend signalled soldiers gruesome end.
The acrid stench of fired guns, blood, mud and dying sons.
The terrible screams of boys and men,
the prayers of those who feared the end.
The desperate cries for home and lovers,
wails for medics, mates and mothers.
Sight of trees stripped and black, troops trudging wounded back.
Horrific scenes of bogged comrades, who slowly went insane, mad.
If you visit the fields of red, still your mind, bow your head.
Remember the soldiers sacrifice, hear the echo of their life.
Watch the poppies stand up tall, hear the birds distant call.
Feel the soft grass brush your side,
they sleep below, the ones who died.