An Indecorous Sweetness

It conjures bloodied mud and men,

yet there were sunny days,

and grass and flowers grew

between shell holes and trenches.

Blue skies stretched over Flanders,

khaki and stone-grey clothed figures

whistled and smoked and did not fret

over third-lit cigarettes.

The drone in the air might be apian

on these fine days, and not airmen

writing legends with red coloured wings.

Tokens moved over maps

by day and night,

so troops moved over ground

- although peach-cheeked subalterns

believed the contrary.

But the lights were dimmed,

for some, on cool evenings,

sniped out from some distance;

the glint of white vellum

signed with love or kisses

enough to draw the final lot.

An indecorous sweetness,

to be thinking of hearts and homes,

as one stops and the other is lost forever.

A drone in the air is counterpoint

to the bells of hell going ting-a-ling-a-ling

for them and not for us.