Patchwork Fields

The mood turns like rotating blades,
Cutting the air with awful sounds,
The machines are getting closer,
The black cross is bearing down…

Like a shadow forced out the sun,
The glint of metal shines like silver
In the distance the engines roar,
As the lions rise up to meet them.

The summer breeze smells of cordite,
The ground is shaking every night,
Sacrifices are soon forgotten, evaporating
Like smoke trails in the sky.

You're photo is all I have now,
To get me through another fight,
My black and white glamour girl,
A sight for sore, tired eyes.

The world spins with blinding speed,
The flash of tracer passes by,
Thank God for the English Channel,
For hearts not afraid to die.

Young and few, bodies fall,
Spirits ascend like angels,
The patchwork fields are bloodied
Lives are black with exhaust fumes.

Written By Chris Yeoman