Bob Oldfield - Christmas 1916

In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan
As did those who were injured and dying
Slumped unceremoniously in mud-filled trenches
Craving for the warmth of a home-fire burning
But there was none

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone
And fingers, numb of feeling like brittle twigs
Twisted at the end of slowly rotting branches.
Delicate precision lost
Unable to caress or soothe
Now locked and cramped around a trigger

Snow had fallen, snow on snow
A masquerade of beauty.
A whitewashed sepulchre encapsulating bodies
In burial robes which once marched proudly
On summers' days

That it should come to this;
Trees in full prime stripped of life
Youthful buds trodden underfoot
And lost forever in the bleak midwinter
Long ago

Bob Oldfield

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christmas-1916/