POPPIES

Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains
not where the death of battle reigns.
Did they reflect upon your story,
lacking fame, devoid of glory?
Ever stopping to reason why
your life escaped you with a sigh?
Your dignity, a fragile flower,
crushed by those who had the power.
Icy winter winds that froze
flesh and blood beneath worn clothes.
Meager rations, thin as rakes,
getting weaker, got the shakes.
Eating bread from shit-filled tanks,
yet to God you still gave thanks.
Escape became your only goal,
to rescue body, rescue soul.
Halleluja! Goal achieved --
Enemy bullet; soul reprieved.
Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains,
not where the death of battle reigns?
NO! You are praised with those who died
where canon roared, and grown men cried.
Red the flowers that honour you,
a prisoner, but a hero too.

Poet's Note:  I was motivated to write this poem after contemplating my
father's
incarceration in a prison camp during World War II.  Thankfully my father did
not die in the war or I would never have been born!  However, he did freeze
half
to death and he did eat bread smuggled into the camp in sewerage trucks and he
did escape.  This poem is dedicated to all those heroic souls who go to war,
whether they believe in it or not, because their country tells them that it is
their duty.  My soul cries out to those who have died in any war at any time. 
May you rest in peace.
I apologise for not getting my meter perfect etc., and promise I will try sort
that out.