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The day was quiet, The dawn was still,
The grass was green, the poppies red
The swallows O'erhead began to trill
Then at a noise, they startled,fled.
The men, as saplings in the forest
Stood at ease, enjoying their tomb,
as yet unknown to them,their quest
To bring a peace to their island home.
The Lords of the forest made sure,
That each young tree was ready to go,
To climb over hill, and rush over moor,
To march to death where carrion birds crow.
The young trees quivered, as the whistles began,
the sound of the axe of doom to come and take them,
But what were they? Their superiors had a plan
They charged over, ready to sacrifice both root and stem.
The shadows in the Dark did stir,
Awoke by no force of nature , but of men,
The needles of a malevolent Iron Fir,
Did spray at them as they ran from their dug out den.
The axe fell swift, the axe fell sure
Many died, and retreat was called,
After some would their civic duty abjure
Yet such deserters with hostile "friendly fire" were felled.
These trees they fell, yet from their deaths,
came each a red poppy to mark their graves.
Those long years ago, In France, In Normandy,
Those soldiers died, for the freedom of Me and thee.
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"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? "
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