When I was 14 (6 years ago) Ii went on a school trip to the Somme in France. One of the places we visited was the Canadian battle field (something or other ridge) The ground had been left how it was and yuo could see all the crators and trenches. A pine tree had been planted there for every canadian that died. It was an amazing place, once I had got away from the croud of the school trip it was so peaceful. I felt humbled by the place - Its hard to explain - it just had such a peacefull feeling about it dispite all the death and the way the ground was ripped up. I found some where alone and sat down. It was early evening and the light was filtering through all the trees and the birds where singing before they roosted for the night and I wrote this - Its still my favorite poem, not because it is as good as more famous poems, but because it brings back all the feelings of being there for me.
Marked
Death has carved this landscape
Into ditches, crators, holes and hills.
But the mud has long gone
And now grass grows
Lit in strips by the sky,
Broken up by tall straight trees
Full of bird song.
But the ground, still torn apart
Remembers the sound
Of shells and bombs
It pays no heed to the silence,
As it lies scarred and broken,
Contourted in pain.
And where the dead lay
There are no grave stones,
Just thowsands of tall straight trees,
Full of bird song,
That break up the sky.
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