In Flanders’ fields


I listen when the stars hang low, the night-
cool air is heavy with the smells
of fox and quince and water running bright,
chiming with the woodland’s leafy bells.

I hear the owl call in his fluting voice,
above the ploughed fields furrowed deep and cold,
where dead lie who were given little choice,
whose smooth moon faces never will grow old.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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