THE GATES OF HELL, A VISION OF WW1
By Simon de Buisseret •
The day was clear and bright and hot
While I was walking in Tyne Cot.
I felt great sadness and a pride,
To think for me these men had died.
I'd seen the battlefields all around,
Now so quiet with barely a sound.
Just a bird sings a lament,
Wings outspread, head bent.
Roses by the headstones grow
As I wander to and from.
Suddenly all has changed.
My thoughts and senses all deranged!
I'm in a dreadful scene in rain.
All is mud, all is pain.
Three men stagger through the grime
Of the sticky fetid slime,
Rags blow red in the squall.
The middle one sinks to his knees and falls,
For a moment to lie there, then he sank
To lie forever in the cold and dank.
And all the while the rain poured down
To fill the craters and hide the drowned.
As I watched in horror at that sight,
The sun came out and all was bright.
Roses shone and all was well
And I knew I'd looked through the Gates Of Hell!