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Foreign Fields

In mud-bespattered ranks men marched
through foreign fields,
once fertile as the farms at home:
their hopes, once high, soon shattered
by mud, gas, guns, barbed-wire
and no-man’s land.

The fields were wet with rain
and scarlet blood and vomit;
peppered with shells, bullets, bodies
and trenches.
No grass or crops remained;
no trees or hedges stood;
no animals roamed,
except for injured horses in those days
when mounted cavalry believed
they still had purpose.


©Marjorie Dobson

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