Harvest at the Front, by Ian Fletcher

He marches across the fields to the trenches. This soil under his boots could grow the corn he sows at home, repaying his toil, season after season, until he would sleep beneath with his ancestors, his life well lived.

Dearest Martha awaits him back there. The parson’s daughter, a good catch indeed! Their wedding will be when this is all over.

He’ll return a hero, making her proud!

Yet now his entrails spill onto no man’s land, where the fields are ploughed into craters and mud by shells, and seeded with bullets which have reaped the harvest of his blood.


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