I strived the ground  on this dear mound
With sword held high, I hit the ground
My armoured chest had took the pound
Of a cannon ball so large and round
That spun my sword all proud and torn
To the ground where it was formed.

A silence passed just for a while
Then a tile was laid with cross and step
To remember me in time of strength
Now as I lay unto my bed.

Forgotten dreams of Kings and Queens
The layman's fork all pitched with scorn
To prep the fields for those who steal
Lay waste and barren for a Baron

Sweet grass and flowers pleased my gaze
Then the field was full of corn and maize
As I watched the seasons  change

Harsh winds blew the lucid soils
That man had cut with sword and scythe
Having never looked beyond the sky
But knelt the earth in all the dirt
Where he was born from birth to girth

To pass asunder from his grave
To view the earth that God had made
He takes it back from breaking backs
Through death and toil and folly man's foil

I watched a while as years passed by
As people slowly died

Then silence fell on this ill mound
No sun or moon or harvest groom
To till the clutching hands on straw

No God..... no dog or maidens frock
Came forth to lend a helping hand.
For man had tired just like his God

Like my rusted scabbard sword
Lay dead and waste beneath my gaze
As I truly fell to waste.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep
No longer could I hear children weep
As they lay deep into a heap; poisoned breasts of those who ferried
Lay squalled and buried by those who cherished

No grave or mass or patron's cast, religious gash.......
Nor surplus cash could save the torn and festered trash
That man had grazed with shaven haste

With hand held high into the sky
He beckons me, and asks me why ?

By George

Great Poem!

Thank you Beaujolais

Regards George