The trees are bare, leaves fallen,
scattered as if bodies on a battlefield.
The grey soldier leans wearily
on his rifle by Whitchurch Library,
a solemn expression on his face.
The names of the dead are listed
from two brutal wars, civilians
as well as the doomed soldiers.
After the autumn deluges
when rain dripped off the soldier like tears
the sun shines illuminating the statue
and the poignant plethora of poppies.
Oh, but the First World War was not the last
and humans have learned nothing from the past.
scattered as if bodies on a battlefield.
The grey soldier leans wearily
on his rifle by Whitchurch Library,
a solemn expression on his face.
The names of the dead are listed
from two brutal wars, civilians
as well as the doomed soldiers.
After the autumn deluges
when rain dripped off the soldier like tears
the sun shines illuminating the statue
and the poignant plethora of poppies.
Oh, but the First World War was not the last
and humans have learned nothing from the past.
