The Eleventh Hour

The Eleventh Hour

The morning bought a silence, the cannon ceased to pound,
A calm descended down to us, a peacefulness around,
And then amid the stench of death, we spied a small red flower,
A poppy bravely blowing,  at this ‘eleventh hour’.

We rose from out of trenches, that for years had been our home,
And saw a lighter sky that day, when we began to roam,
Free from the fear of gassing now, as scarlet as the flower,
That marks our comrades passing now, – at this ‘eleventh hour’.

The skylark sang its gentle song, as peace began to swell,
Then friend and foe both understood, they had defeated hell,
But still the souls of millions lost, lay underneath the bower,
Of that single poppy blowing,  at this ‘eleventh hour’.

A weary soldier rests awhile, the silence drinking in,
No more to fight, no more to kill, no battle now to win,
No more to dominate or threat, no use for greater power,
Just let the poppies seeds blow now, at this ‘eleventh hour’.

So as these poppy seeds do root, and as the flowers grow,
Remember now the headstones standing,  row on mournful row,
Inscribed forever in our hearts, as the legion’s flag we lower,
Is a poppy, – and our warriors.  At this ‘eleventh hour’.

May God Bless You All.
Mick