The mist drifts over Flanders Fields
as if the ghosts of those who lie
in this foreign land across the sea.
A century has passed since the shelling ceased
yet conflicts still cast dark shadows.
I read the poem Rhyfel, Welsh for war
by Hedd Wyn whose grave I'm standing before.
There are no screams of the doomed today
only the gentle sound of cows and birds
as people plant flowers by the tombs
of young lads with dreams unfulfilled.
It is so peaceful now but I picture
terrified soldiers with dying breath
and the laughter...of the Angel of Death.