Mary Evelyn
New member
Super poem Colin,thankyou for sharing.
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Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
Mary Evelyn
New member
THE DARKLING THRUSH
Thomas Hardy
c.1900
=======================
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was specter gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-throated evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Hi all , another one for winter. :flowers:Sorry Steve,i was just going over old posts and spotted you had already done this one.Great minds think alike :flowers:
Thomas Hardy
c.1900
=======================
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was specter gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-throated evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Hi all , another one for winter. :flowers:Sorry Steve,i was just going over old posts and spotted you had already done this one.Great minds think alike :flowers:
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Sue Wright
Well-known member
Another very timely one Mary, I loved it when the Thrush came in towards the end, so true of them singing a short while before Christmas. That one reminded me of 6 years ago when we'd been to Crewkerne to do the shopping, then back in the car park just over the wall was a Thrush singing so beautifully on the top of the tree. It was dusk so we couldn't tell about his blast-beruffled plume |<| but his song was so very rich and filled the cold evening air - such blissful moments long remembered!
Thanks Mary, delightful.
Sue.
Thanks Mary, delightful.
Sue.
scampo
Steve Campsall
It's been a favourite of mine since I read it, years ago, Mary - what a beautiful poem! Hardy can't put a foot wrong in my camp, though, novels and poems: all quite superb. Here's another from the great man. Hardy wrote this after the death of his first wife, Emma.
The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever consigned to existlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward
And the woman calling.
Thomas Hardy
December 1912
The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever consigned to existlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward
And the woman calling.
Thomas Hardy
December 1912
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scampo
Steve Campsall
What is so attracting about some poems is the way poets use words, phrases, lines and stanzas to make them work so much more effectively than a prose writer ever could. When a poet's words "speak" to you with full force the effect is surely amazing:Tyke said:
"Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,"
This evokes so well the harrowing loss Hardy was feeling.
"Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever consigned to existlessness,"
Hardy's coinage of "existlessness" would be banal in lesser hands.
"Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,"
The sudden shortening of the line adds a stuttering quality that adds perfectly to the meaning of the words. We can see and feel Hardy's actions and predicament.
"And the woman calling."
Sheer desperation is contained in the short final line.
And, in Mary's poem, who but a great poet could pen:
"In blast-beruffled plume"?
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Tanny
Well-known member
At last I found a Jack Frost Poem in my collection.
Thank's for the explanation on the poem Steve I need advice like you give to understand the concept of what the poet is saying
--------Jack Frost.
Some time in the dead of night,
Neath a dark blue sky,
While a thousand stars looked on,
Now icicles hang like moulded glass,
And, where his icy fingers fell,
A silver trail, like fingerprints,
Has the strangest tales to tell.
The garden pond is frozen; he must have dipped his toe,
And it’s inches thick with ice where the lilies always grow.
The spiders web that graces the wooden garden gate
Sparkles like magic stardust spun by the quiet hand of fate.
Wonderful, beautiful,
Bold as bold,
Jack Frost passed by,
Like a spirit of old.
----Dorothy Morris.
I also found other poems with reference to frost.
--------Frosty Morning.
All the trees have turned wintry white in the glistening frost of night,
There’s a little hint of early mist as trees by silvery sun are kissed.
And in this white-world, pale and still, all life is changed by winter’s chill:
Such precious beauty, rarely seen, lacy frost and evergreen.
Sky is a very delicate blue, there’s a feeling of freshness, life anew,
And though the frost touches everything, the morning sunshine tells of spring.
-----Enid Pearson
--------------Frost Bound.
Speak of the winter’s bitter bite, and I will show you sheer delight-
Acres of lowland, white embossed, where hardy sheep gnaw through the frost.
Beautiful, sleepy little vales, unspoilt, and boasting sparkling trails.
Motionless trees with hoar-bound limbs, charming the eyes till daylight dims.
Clusters of reeds and grassy shoots, like silver daggers from their roots,
Exquisite, by the icy streams, as peaceful as the calm of dreams.
Places that truly cheer the heart, forests where timid creatures dart,
Touched by cold winter’s tinselled hand, making it seem like fairyland.
------Alice Jean Don.
Thank's for the explanation on the poem Steve I need advice like you give to understand the concept of what the poet is saying
--------Jack Frost.
Some time in the dead of night,
Neath a dark blue sky,
While a thousand stars looked on,
Now icicles hang like moulded glass,
And, where his icy fingers fell,
A silver trail, like fingerprints,
Has the strangest tales to tell.
The garden pond is frozen; he must have dipped his toe,
And it’s inches thick with ice where the lilies always grow.
The spiders web that graces the wooden garden gate
Sparkles like magic stardust spun by the quiet hand of fate.
Wonderful, beautiful,
Bold as bold,
Jack Frost passed by,
Like a spirit of old.
----Dorothy Morris.
I also found other poems with reference to frost.
--------Frosty Morning.
All the trees have turned wintry white in the glistening frost of night,
There’s a little hint of early mist as trees by silvery sun are kissed.
And in this white-world, pale and still, all life is changed by winter’s chill:
Such precious beauty, rarely seen, lacy frost and evergreen.
Sky is a very delicate blue, there’s a feeling of freshness, life anew,
And though the frost touches everything, the morning sunshine tells of spring.
-----Enid Pearson
--------------Frost Bound.
Speak of the winter’s bitter bite, and I will show you sheer delight-
Acres of lowland, white embossed, where hardy sheep gnaw through the frost.
Beautiful, sleepy little vales, unspoilt, and boasting sparkling trails.
Motionless trees with hoar-bound limbs, charming the eyes till daylight dims.
Clusters of reeds and grassy shoots, like silver daggers from their roots,
Exquisite, by the icy streams, as peaceful as the calm of dreams.
Places that truly cheer the heart, forests where timid creatures dart,
Touched by cold winter’s tinselled hand, making it seem like fairyland.
------Alice Jean Don.
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Tanny a beautiful poem,also the Thrush poem,very evocative.One can just see and hear this bird sitting high up in his tree ,in the cold ,sending forth his beautiful song.
Mary Evelyn
New member
Thankyou Sue,Steve,Tanny and Tyke,this is a wonderful thread that goes on and on Christine. :flowers:
More beautiful poems Steve and Tanny.
More beautiful poems Steve and Tanny.
Mickymouse
Ubuntu Linux user
I came to like poetry quite late too but I feel it is a bonus to discover a whole new field of interest that I had never appreciated before, better late than never.Tyke said:
Mick
Tanny
Well-known member
------------STORMY INTERLUDE.
Soft rushes of the streamside whisper sway and shudder,
Disturbed by wavelets caused by my small skiffs rudder.
As I drift among Bog weed, Kingcups, Lilies and Sedges,
Lightly brushing Spiderling cobwebs off Bulrush leaves edges.
Water Rats and Field Voles on the bank of the stream,
Small Beetles and Earwigs amid the grasses unseen.
Two Ring Doves “coo” whilst gathering twigs for their nest,
Old Owl in his hole blinks disturbed at his rest.
Flies buzz over rotting cow dung in the meadow grass,
A caterpillar falls to the surface water like glass.
It wriggles and squirms in its effort to crawl,
But is devoured by a Trout, legs, whiskers and all.
Dark clouds on the horizon and lightning descend,
The wind from a breeze turns to a howling gale.
My skiff skims the water and sinks on a bend,
I drag onto the bank and with bucket I bail.
Rain curses down and saturated a shelter I find,
Till Thors pent up fury finds peace of mind.
Dripping rivulets of moisture drip from each twig end,
The sun breaks through like a benevolent friend.
Beneath a lightning struck tree, smoldering above,
Lay a sodden battered bundle of one Ring Dove.
I gather my skiff and off the bank with a push,
Sailed down that now river at a tremendous rush.
The water hissed along carrying among the debris,
Dead Voles and Beetles and leaves from the tree.
Wriggling Earwigs, Lilly leaves and Kingcup flower head,
Residue from bank-side turning the water dull red.
Out into the Ocean the river soon met,
And I sailed to the horizon into the sunset.
Another one of mine written in the 1980s.
Soft rushes of the streamside whisper sway and shudder,
Disturbed by wavelets caused by my small skiffs rudder.
As I drift among Bog weed, Kingcups, Lilies and Sedges,
Lightly brushing Spiderling cobwebs off Bulrush leaves edges.
Water Rats and Field Voles on the bank of the stream,
Small Beetles and Earwigs amid the grasses unseen.
Two Ring Doves “coo” whilst gathering twigs for their nest,
Old Owl in his hole blinks disturbed at his rest.
Flies buzz over rotting cow dung in the meadow grass,
A caterpillar falls to the surface water like glass.
It wriggles and squirms in its effort to crawl,
But is devoured by a Trout, legs, whiskers and all.
Dark clouds on the horizon and lightning descend,
The wind from a breeze turns to a howling gale.
My skiff skims the water and sinks on a bend,
I drag onto the bank and with bucket I bail.
Rain curses down and saturated a shelter I find,
Till Thors pent up fury finds peace of mind.
Dripping rivulets of moisture drip from each twig end,
The sun breaks through like a benevolent friend.
Beneath a lightning struck tree, smoldering above,
Lay a sodden battered bundle of one Ring Dove.
I gather my skiff and off the bank with a push,
Sailed down that now river at a tremendous rush.
The water hissed along carrying among the debris,
Dead Voles and Beetles and leaves from the tree.
Wriggling Earwigs, Lilly leaves and Kingcup flower head,
Residue from bank-side turning the water dull red.
Out into the Ocean the river soon met,
And I sailed to the horizon into the sunset.
Another one of mine written in the 1980s.
Mickymouse said:
Yes indeed Mick.
One for Poppy Day:-
Dulce et Decorum Est
1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
1893-1918
_________________________________
Colin
scampo
Steve Campsall
Ah Colin - when I teach that, I can barely get to the end without the students recognising how deeply it has moved me. Here are two more poems of the Great War.
[A Fragment]
I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.
I would have thought of them
- Heedless, within a week of battle - in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered…
Only, always,
I could but see them - against the lamplight - pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts - soon to die
To other ghosts - this one, or that, or I.
Rupert Brooke (April 1915)
Futility
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Wilfred Owen
[A Fragment]
I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.
I would have thought of them
- Heedless, within a week of battle - in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered…
Only, always,
I could but see them - against the lamplight - pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts - soon to die
To other ghosts - this one, or that, or I.
Rupert Brooke (April 1915)
Futility
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Wilfred Owen
scampo
Steve Campsall
Here is a very moving poem from the Second World War along with a commentary (not mine). I find it tragically moving.
“Some of those educated since the 1960s will judge the poem dated, class-based and fatally flawed with a romantic notion of war. But I come back again to a simple, stark point. In the world as it is, what we enjoy, what touches our deepest convictions, has depended on the willingness of people to lose their lives in defending it. So we remember them with a sense of the loss of all that they might have given to make our world a better place and all that they have given to prevent it from being even worse than it is now…”
No Ordinary Sunday
No ordinary Sunday. First the light
Falling dead through dormitory windows blind
With fog; and then, at breakfast, every plate
Stained with the small, red cotton flower; and no
Sixpence for pocket-money. Greatcoats, lined
By the right, marched from their pegs, with slow
Poppy fires smouldering in one lapel
To light us through the fallen cloud. Behind
That handkerchief sobbed the quick Sunday bell.
A granite cross, the school field underfoot,
Inaudible prayers, hymn-sheets that stirred
Too loudly in the hand. When hymns ran out,
Silence, like silt, lay round so wide and deep
It seemed that winter held its breath. We heard
Only the river talking in its sleep:
Until the bugler flexed his lips, and sound
Cutting the fog cleanly like a bird,
Circled and sang out over the bandaged ground.
Then, low-voiced, the headmaster called the roll
Of those who could not answer; every name
Suffixed with honour—‘double first’, ‘kept goal
For Cambridge’—and a death—in spitfires, tanks,
And ships torpedoed. At his call there came
Through the mist blond heroes in broad ranks
With rainbows struggling on their chests. Ahead
Of us, in strict step, as we idled home
Marched the formations of the towering dead.
November again, and the bugles blown
In a tropical Holy Trinity,
The heroes today stand further off, grown
Smaller but distinct. They flash no medals, keep
No ranks: through Last Post and Reveille
Their chins loll on their chests, like birds asleep.
Only when the long, last note ascends
Upon the wings of kites, some two or three
Look up: and have the faces of my friends.
Jon Stallworthy
“Some of those educated since the 1960s will judge the poem dated, class-based and fatally flawed with a romantic notion of war. But I come back again to a simple, stark point. In the world as it is, what we enjoy, what touches our deepest convictions, has depended on the willingness of people to lose their lives in defending it. So we remember them with a sense of the loss of all that they might have given to make our world a better place and all that they have given to prevent it from being even worse than it is now…”
No Ordinary Sunday
No ordinary Sunday. First the light
Falling dead through dormitory windows blind
With fog; and then, at breakfast, every plate
Stained with the small, red cotton flower; and no
Sixpence for pocket-money. Greatcoats, lined
By the right, marched from their pegs, with slow
Poppy fires smouldering in one lapel
To light us through the fallen cloud. Behind
That handkerchief sobbed the quick Sunday bell.
A granite cross, the school field underfoot,
Inaudible prayers, hymn-sheets that stirred
Too loudly in the hand. When hymns ran out,
Silence, like silt, lay round so wide and deep
It seemed that winter held its breath. We heard
Only the river talking in its sleep:
Until the bugler flexed his lips, and sound
Cutting the fog cleanly like a bird,
Circled and sang out over the bandaged ground.
Then, low-voiced, the headmaster called the roll
Of those who could not answer; every name
Suffixed with honour—‘double first’, ‘kept goal
For Cambridge’—and a death—in spitfires, tanks,
And ships torpedoed. At his call there came
Through the mist blond heroes in broad ranks
With rainbows struggling on their chests. Ahead
Of us, in strict step, as we idled home
Marched the formations of the towering dead.
November again, and the bugles blown
In a tropical Holy Trinity,
The heroes today stand further off, grown
Smaller but distinct. They flash no medals, keep
No ranks: through Last Post and Reveille
Their chins loll on their chests, like birds asleep.
Only when the long, last note ascends
Upon the wings of kites, some two or three
Look up: and have the faces of my friends.
Jon Stallworthy
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My goodness Steve what a poem that last one is.
..."formations of the towering dead"
It is so fitting to remember them.It is so difficult to assemble a group of images which seem satisfactory.
Owen and the others tell how painful their deaths were & remind us how futile & pointless. But does this demean them?
Stallworthy speaks of their heroism-and there must have been much of that. But what of sheer impotent terror of what was to come?
I can never seem to settle on the right thoughts.
Thank you
Colin
..."formations of the towering dead"
It is so fitting to remember them.It is so difficult to assemble a group of images which seem satisfactory.
Owen and the others tell how painful their deaths were & remind us how futile & pointless. But does this demean them?
Stallworthy speaks of their heroism-and there must have been much of that. But what of sheer impotent terror of what was to come?
I can never seem to settle on the right thoughts.
Thank you
Colin
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scampo
Steve Campsall
It is a most beautiful poem, isn't it? I'm so glad you liked it. The way Stalworthy (a New Zealander, I think) uses run-on lines, in particular, is incredibly effective and as you say, its images almost etch themselves (as do Owen's) onto the mind.Tyke said:
As I watched this evening's news item on the evil BNF and heard those thoughtless youths talking in the accompanying interview, I couldn't help recalling the hatred suggested by the banners waved in London following the July bombs. I have to say that at times, your words "impotent terror" do - just for fleeting moments - describe feelings I have of the present unhappy world situation. I so hope that the media are exaggerating it all.
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christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Another Poem for the Remembrance weekend,with a small mention of one of our birds.
In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses,row on row
That mark our place:and in the sky
The larks,still singing,fly
Scarce unheard amid the guns below
We are the dead.Short days ago
We lived,felt dawn,saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved,and now we lie
In Flanders' fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,though poppies grow
In Flanders' fields.
John Macrae.
John Macrae wrote this poem in 1915.He was a doctor serving with the Canadian Armed Forces.Apparently it was his poem which inspired the first donations of artificial poppies given in Britain on Nov 11th 1921.
Civilians wanted to remember the people who had given their lives for peace and freedom. Moina Michael, an American War Secretary, was moved by Macrae's work to write:
And now the torch and Poppy red,wear in honour of our dead.".
Miss Michael bought red poppies and sold them to her friends to raise money for service men in need.
Her French colleague,Madame Geurin,proposed the making of artificial poppies to help ex Servicemen and their dependants.
in Britain,Major Goerge Howson,a young Infantry officer,formed the Disabled Society,to help disabled ex Servicemen and women from World War One.
In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses,row on row
That mark our place:and in the sky
The larks,still singing,fly
Scarce unheard amid the guns below
We are the dead.Short days ago
We lived,felt dawn,saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved,and now we lie
In Flanders' fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,though poppies grow
In Flanders' fields.
John Macrae.
John Macrae wrote this poem in 1915.He was a doctor serving with the Canadian Armed Forces.Apparently it was his poem which inspired the first donations of artificial poppies given in Britain on Nov 11th 1921.
Civilians wanted to remember the people who had given their lives for peace and freedom. Moina Michael, an American War Secretary, was moved by Macrae's work to write:
And now the torch and Poppy red,wear in honour of our dead.".
Miss Michael bought red poppies and sold them to her friends to raise money for service men in need.
Her French colleague,Madame Geurin,proposed the making of artificial poppies to help ex Servicemen and their dependants.
in Britain,Major Goerge Howson,a young Infantry officer,formed the Disabled Society,to help disabled ex Servicemen and women from World War One.
Tanny
Well-known member
Colin, that pulled the heart strings, and Steve, that moved one to tears.
Christine, that story is history reborn, the reason of the poppy forgotten by so many.
Old soldiers don't talk of what they saw and did during their time on the battlefields, best not to dwell on the sights and sounds, shut them to the back of the mind and let their God decide what to do with their memories when they depart this world.
They who have never experianced the trauma and horror of the battlefield can only visualise the event, and pay homage to those who faught and died, because they faught and died for each future generation.
Christine, that story is history reborn, the reason of the poppy forgotten by so many.
Old soldiers don't talk of what they saw and did during their time on the battlefields, best not to dwell on the sights and sounds, shut them to the back of the mind and let their God decide what to do with their memories when they depart this world.
They who have never experianced the trauma and horror of the battlefield can only visualise the event, and pay homage to those who faught and died, because they faught and died for each future generation.
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