Lightning flashed and thunder roared inside the smoke-filled clouds billowing across the desolation of their quagmire stage.
Above the uproar, riding the wind in repetitive waves, the lonesome sound of a solitary piper rose and fell, rose and fell.
Inside this ghostly mist of acrid fog, frightened faces of wide-eyed men appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared.
Bewildered actors in a pitiless play scripted a century ago but remembered on this mournful day.
Bitter winds continue to blow while blood-red poppies sway to and fro.
Lloyd Atkins
