There is a wood <br />where we played as children <br />and bluebells grow <br /> <br />When you came home <br />after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe <br />we picked bluebells <br /> <br />When you came home <br />from the killing fields of Iraq <br />we picked bluebells <br /> <br />When you came home <br />from the poppy fields of Afghanistan <br />we picked bluebells <br /> <br />When you came home <br />telling of monks beaten in Tibet <br />we picked bluebells <br /> <br />When you came home <br />from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip <br />it was in a coffin <br /> <br />There is a wood <br />where history plays tricks on us <br />and bluebells grow<br /><br />Roger Taber<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-no-bells-toll/
