The poet, alone now, closed his eyes away from the sight of destruction and death around him. The trenches held misery for all who had called it a home of sorts over the last two years; the mud, the filthy stench rising from living and dead alike, the damp. Even the companionship of his brothers in arms held no comfort now. They were all gone. They had left him alone; left him in the sweet escape of eternal sleep, somewhere out on the battlefield. Their faces visited him now in his last moments, the memories warming him and raising his spirits.

       He opened his eyes once more, too weary to move. He shifted, breathing heavily with the effort. Crouched against the trench wall, his small form was invisible to the soldiers who ran past, boys with weapons of an awful power beyond their imaginations, heavy boots falling on the wooden boards. They passed and gun fire died away into the distance. The poet looked up towards the grey sky that offered no hope now; not a single bird flew over, no sweet song to please the lonely young men in their hour of need. But there, across from the poet along the edge of the trench, was a spark of colour amongst the endless grey that blurred the divide between land and sky, a dash of brilliance that was not the bright scarlet of lost blood. Along the trench wall a single flower grew. So small, not a single man had noticed but the poet, so fragile it would be destroyed in an instant…but it was there. A smile briefly passed across his worn face. The sight of it animated his spirit, even if just for a brief instant.