This week’s poem, by ‘AGG’, is called A Suffolk Soldier.
At first, we could have been back home –
Brown, flat fields, wherever you looked.
Mud – we were used to it,
Part of the job, you might say.
We dug it, ploughed it
Drove our horses through it,
Always working with it,
Always sure the day would come
When brown turned to green, then gold.
Hard work – but our mud bore a living harvest.
But this mud – this was different,
Cloying, sticky, resisting any attempt to be tamed.
It became yet another enemy to be conquered.
As a road – sometimes impassable.
As a bed – hard, unforgiving.
All too soon we saw it not as a blanket,
Nurturing the unborn seed,
But as a shroud,
A winding sheet for the young bodies
It devoured daily.
In France, brown mud turns red,
In France mud’s harvest is death.