Across the fields where <br />once a bugle played <br />The returning echo <br />of the children’s laughter. <br />Ground that shook to <br />history’s martial boot <br />Sings now to the small joyous <br />feet that tread the future. <br />Blessed time has thinned <br />The rows of marching men <br />Into a rainbow crocodile <br />of curiosity and wonder. <br />Now where rifle and <br />bayonet once held sway <br />A sand pit and plastic slide <br />Give the calling and the purpose <br />Nor am I sad at what I see <br />For things are, here at least, in order. <br />Children at play and learning <br />And wars and soldiering, held <br />Safe, within old men’s memories.<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roses-in-a-lions-den/
