by Owain Glyn
The sky was grey and sullen Shrapnel rain struck window pane. Inside sat fresh scrubbed faces Pink with expectation. Hair, filled with mischief Notes passed, with intention. Teachers with vocation Intent on revelation. Unearthly sounds reverberated Silent breaths were held. Death's hounds were near, and convocated Close upon this ground. Suddenly, the valley, silent Not a sound was heard. We looked in shock, in total awe Could God be this absurd? We tried with bloody fingers But to no avail. The filth that took these poor young souls Had handed us no trail. So, where were you upon this day? And where was our sweet lord? When these young souls should meet their end Could this be his accord? So, this I ask each one of you, I ask it too, of me, Is each soul that died that day Nearer God to thee?