Now this is a tale the poplars tell <br />of the road to Armentiers, <br />where we marched right up to the gates of Hell, <br />off and on for a couple of years. <br /> <br />One weary march o'er the cobbled stones, <br />when we couldn't breathe for heat; <br />when we cursed our luck with blistering tongues, <br />and we cursed our blistered feet, <br />we passed by a little latticed house <br />with a creeper on the wall, <br />and a Flemish girl who waved her hand; <br />My God! how it cheered us all. <br /> <br />A long march o'er the cobbled stones, <br />through the silent poplar trees, <br />in the clammy mist of an autumn dawn, <br />and a whiff of a rancid breeze. <br />But the latticed house is shattered now, <br />and the creepers bruised and torn, <br />and no maid smiled us a bright good day <br />as we passed in the still grey morn. <br /> <br />There's many a tale the poplars tell <br />of that road of cobbled stone, <br />where Bill and I marched side by side <br />and I came back alone. <br /> <br />(In the vernacular of the British soldier, Armentiers is pronounced 'Armenteers') <br />20 October 1916<br /><br />William Richard Torvaney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cobbled-road/
