When my grandfather speaks of his past
He only recalls the horrors of when he fought
Of plains of death
Filled with comrades, now ripped and bloodied
Of pummelled fields
From the blows of the battle, shattering the ground
Of mud filled trenches
Infested with nightmares and dread
Of darkened skies
The constant shadow enveloping the ground
But when I visit the places of which he speaks
I only see the beauty and peace of nature
I see but the calm wind blowing the grass
I see but red patches of poppies that grow
I see but serenity where adversity once stood
I see but the sun gleaming at peace