Copyright © 2005 Martin Newell
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The Boys Of September
Quiet fell the fields in the first winter rain
As home came the ploughman
to plough once again
And steady-eyed, he walked beside
his heavy Percheron
When the boys of September had gone.
There where they fell, only shell, bone and tears
Till the wheat which they'd sown,
it had grown, over years
In the ridges and the contours which
the poppies sprang up on.
Names locked in stone
Written in the town and village squares
they had known.
Now it's long years away, I will stray
down this lane
Where the boys of September cannot
And a sickle wind will sweep the fields
But I will carry on
When the boys of September
The boys of September