The Final Cavalry Charge
Row
upon row of soldiers upon magnificent horses born of strength of centuries past
from England’s green and pleasant land.
Sabres
held high in preparation for the charge upon the Hun. To charge, and cut, then
claim the victory so rightly theirs.
Artillery,
shells and gas fall from the sky like fire lost from the blacksmith’s anvil as
shrapnel tears each soul from soul and muffles the horse’s cries.
Stallion
charge upon the Hun but a dream of English men as hoofs ride high in the sky and
are cut down by machine gun fire.
And
so the final cavalry charge never came just a field of poppies to cover those
who died, one for each weeping mother who cried.
The
seed of Europe slain en-mass, dead for King and Country, the darkest side of
sadness.
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