Art by www.deviantart.com/pictaur

A solemn oath to silence
As they lay under the red fields
Forefathers of nations to be

Sons of the soil that never reached
Or even had a chance to say their last farewells
Yet, one cannot forget

In Flanders’s fields she stands
Her heart in lockstep with the stillness
Of those who lay underneath her

Yet, through the mildew, she gently plucks
And places crimson laurels near her face
She treads earth slowly and deliberately

And feels the cool Flemish breeze
Kiss her delicate yet tough skin
As she turns

And visits the closest cemetery
She can feel the presence of their spirits
She imagines their boots marching along

Row by row, she lays crimson laurels
On each tombstone
Paying her respects

To the men and women
Who never made it home
Yet, she hears their singing

She hears their voices
She holds them close together
And she marches on

Until she stops
Her eyes scanning over a tombstone
That has her surname on it

‘Oswell’, her eyes close
She kneels and lays another laurel
Her eyes open once more

Emotion wells up in her
As she stands and salutes
To the men who spilled their blood

For their nation
On the Flemish fields
Yet, she feels particular

She kneels once more
Offering a small prayer
To grandpa Oswell

Misty-eyed
She holds her hands close
To her heart

She departs ever so gently
Under the dying pangs
Of warm November

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