11.11.: To the Fallen

Embattled in that mud - and blood-red poppies;
flooded trenches holding 'them' at bay;
life or death a coin's flippant toss-up;
deafening shellfire near by night and day -

for us, these horrors now are others' lives,
impossible to truly comprehend;
yet in my own mind's state, I recognise
these battles are still raging without end:

the mud, the clung-to life, the enemy
imagined - these, we strive still to invent.

Their thoughts, at death's door, lost to memory:
'I love you...' - gone, a family's content.

We owe to them to live a life of love
as if we were transfused from their own blood.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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