Christmastime In Flanders Fields

 

A poem by Chris Waddington

 

In Flanders fields, whence Christmas came

Lay a blanket of glistening frost

Hiding one’s darkest transgressions

Skeletons of stricken soldiers lost

 

Mud-lined trenches

harbour rivers of frozen blood

Within minds aching for yesterday

Forlorn dreams of normality flood

 

Mercifully, the guns fall silent

Heralding dusk on Christmas Eve

Embers of a sacrificed season

We quietly grieve.

 

Across rugged plains, devoid of glory

“Englander, Englander “they cry

Foes masquerading as merry souls

Too young to die

 

A portrayal of imperishable beauty

Depicts a sea of blazing Christmas trees

Angelic tones of Silent Nacht

Float serenely on the breeze

 

Moonlit madness teases

A peaceful tomorrow

Hope infecting hardened hearts

Laden with sorrow

 

The morning sun rises

On to no man’s land, heroes pour

Greeting men they sought to kill

Only hours before

 

Drinking in a freedom

Inexplicable during war

Sharing hatred for a conflict

Imprisoning us on this shore

 

Standing in a graveyard of ambition

Where so many dreams died

Amidst a cackle of conversation

 Cherished photos are brandished with pride

 

Excitedly playing football

Like gleeful children in the park

Tastes of sweet liberation

But, it will soon be dark

 

An ugly black reality descends

Our Christmas is at an end

Fond farewells are spoken

Goodbye, good luck and may God speed you my friend

 

Despite all that has gone before

I guess we’re now at war…