In a deep sided valley in a rugged land,
The river bursting with its collected rain,
Surrounded by the audience of autumn,
Trooping the colours on November pain.
Light poured in like the thick army coffee,
Drunk in trenches a hundred years before,
Bouncing off shiny leaves of every orange,
Some dying and floating to the wet floor.
Vibrant life surrounded the rough river,
Flecked with the golden brown fallen,
Discarded in their final flourishes of life,
There husks floating idly by all swollen.
Waterfalls of raindrops forged downwards,
Gathering together like armed battalions,
Parting the valleys ancient stony defences,
Charging white light downward like galleons.
Five concrete walls carved this valley up,
Manmade borders controlling the flow,
Building up pressure and tension behind,
Commanding lives on when they can go.
Five front lines of immense hostilities,
High-speed projectiles go bursting out,
The deepest roar of deafening impacts,
But you can discern an individual shout.
Darkness invades this huge rocky trench,
Vailing the very vibrant community within,
Life hunkering down against the wintertime,
Muffling up its wild and eclectic lifetime din.
The battle of life and death goes on now,
A hundred years after the so-called end,
We remember each valuable life given up,
Sacrifices we all struggle to comprehend.
About the Author:
Matt Gopsill
I’m just a normal man with a wheelchair strapped to me. My background is in computing but in my spare time, I was writing poetry. A few years ago I went to an open mic night, I was nervous because I use a computer to talk for me and I’d never spoken a poem out, it went well and applause rang out!
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