On Walcheren

Willst shadows flicker on the water receeding on the ebb.

A watchful eye guards carefully the tired men in bed.

Their bed is just a sand dune, their ceiling just the sky,

Tomorrow will decide who will live or die.

Walcheren Isla has cost enough, a bitter bloody fight,

A little bit of flooded land the enemy held tight.

The little ships were the first to suffer,

And men met men in combat, and forced a human buffer.

And as the rising moon showes scare formed in the sky,

A pall of smoke is rising just across the bay.

And we will leave this broken place……. only a battered shell,

To live forever in our mind as just a living hell.

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