He Speaks of a Scene

 

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