The mist clings like a memory
Of ancient peace
Here on the battlefield
You stand and listen, discretely
For the echoes of the dead
Clinging to the mist
But hear only the terror of children
As they learn
That every field is a battlefield
The park with its memorial
And the park with its playground
Clinging like a memory
Of blood, soaking every inch of earth
As children scream their play
Here on the battlefield
Their terror I want my Dad
I am a child
Clinging like mist
Here on the battlefield

for the dverse prompt of 2/2/21: war

16 thoughts on “We have always lived in the war zone

  1. Jane’s comment and your poem have got me thinking about war memorials. I’m thinking about them in my town, how they dot the landscape. Every VFW has a war machine on its lawn. “Echoes of the dead.”

    • The mist on the battlefield is an image stuck in my head from a trip to Gettysburg, which seemed to be continually shrouded in this romantic fog.

      Gburg farm

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