In Devon Fields


 
To slaughter houses babies go
Sent by their ‘farmers,’ row on row,
Killed for young flesh, sent off to die,
As grieving mothers, pour out eye,
Scarce seen or heard, through cry and low.
 
Theirs are the dead; short days ago
They lived, felt rain, caught sun below,
Loved and were loved, now terrified
In slaughter ‘houses.’
 
Take up their quarrel with the foe!
To you from bleeding throats they throw
The torch: now yours to shine – defy!
If we break faith with those who lie
In pools of blood, though grasses grow
In Devon fields.
Heidi Stephenson

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