The Meadow

I walked across a meadow once,

where phlox and daisies grew,

their brightly colored petals

lightly dipped in morning dew.

A tender carpet woven

from the blades of grassy green,

where nature tossed some sprigs of moss

to fill the in-between.

The smell of blooming flowers

floated sweetly in the air,

and pollinators on the wing

made sure they’re always there.

A field of beauty cast beneath

the blue and cloudless skies,

a splendid gift from Heaven

sure to mesmerize the eyes.

But underneath its beauty

lay the remnants of before,

a violent, bloody battle

in the throes of Civil War.

Common men, once brothers,

stood amassed at either end,

poised – awaiting orders

for a battle to begin.

A sudden crack of gunfire

and the bugle’s portent calls –

a spark to seasoned tinder

in the form of musket balls.

Across this very meadow

came the waves of blue and gray,

meeting in the middle

to commence their mortal play.

Polished blades and bayonets

were clashing hand to hand,

while bloodied rags and tattered flags

lay strewn across the land.

Anguish and confliction

filled their eyes with hate and fear,

tearing lives from kids and wives,

for what – it wasn’t clear.

Screams of pain and anger

could be heard from all around,

loud – but silenced quickly

as their bodies hit the ground.

Horses’ hooves and cannon blasts

turned meadow grass to mud,

and rolling hills, once tranquil

glistened – soaked in human blood.

And when the battle ended

and a victory declared,

the grays had been defeated –

not a single life was spared.

Then years of rain and seasons

washed the battle scars away,

and peace befell the meadow –

Mother Nature had her way.

Restored her fragrant beauty

to the way she used to be,

a meadow with a story,

there in Shiloh, Tennessee.