Scarecrows crowd my dreams,
Not in ones and twos, but
In long, shambling, shuffling queues,
Moving to the rhythm of a distant drum,
Clad in red, white and blue they come,
Heads held high, arms out wide,
Scattering the black flocks on every side.
I watch them disappear into the night
And long after they have passed from sight,
I hear their voices, thunder, roar
Until the sullen silence reigns once more.
I scan the horizon, the summit of the hill,
Knowing they must return and when they will,
The good and worthy come line the sorry streets,
Scattering dead flowers at their feet.
Just read ‘Grey Souls’ by Phillipe Claudel. Beautifully written with powerful descriptions of troops leaving for and returning from the trenches. Such images resonate throughout our lifetime.