I wonder what it must have been like,
sitting there in cold, muddy trenches,
looking out over the scarred land.
For King and country, they came,
now they wait and watch,
wondering who will be next.
Star shells burst above,
Casting a ghostly glow,
as the light burns through the mist.
I wonder how they felt,
the night before the whistles blew.
Over the top, into leaden hail,
bodies torn, driven into the mud.
I wonder if they prayed,
what they wrote in letters,
about what they saw,
how they felt,
the dreams they had.
I wonder how he felt,
on that last day,
as the sun rose brightly,
on that September morning.
Did he know we would remember?