Green Forests of France

A short poem inspired when visiting the World War I trenches of Northern France

The forest of blood, the forest of tears,

The cries of the dying tormented by fear

Trenches and whistles, barbed wire and gas,

Nations are raging in the hellish mud pass

Bullets and bomb shells, bodies ablaze,

The ripping of flesh in a grey smoky haze

That accursed forest once stained in man's blood,

Now a pasture and refuge for the badger and her cubs

The glistening hill where dead bodies once laid,

The deer leads her young to come over and play

Among the pine trees where boys shot each other,

A brood of young chicks find rest in their mother

As the morning sun rises and sparrows are heard,

They remind us our cruelty hasn't had the last word...

For no matter our darkness, no matter our plight,

No evil we do can smother God's light

He brings life out of death, and diamonds from ashes,

Justice and healing from 39 lashes

The Maker of the forest sends these reminders

To show us there's hope of a world fair and brighter

For in our mud trenches the sun will still shine,

The grass will regrow, let these be a sign

That no evil can silence the sparrow's song,

So long as He rules who makes right all our wrongs.