by Charles Hughes
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| Cover of the May 6, 1944 issue of The New Yorker. |
Far from the war, days bloom—
Some gorgeously—as in
A sickroom hopes can rise,
Though death must surely come.
Spring’s lust can’t be a sin,
We think, and hide our eyes
From war. Not from the war—
Its miseries we see well:
Heroes we meet we cheer,
Barbarians we deplore,
Shocked by the sights of this hell,
Glad it’s not happening here.
Poppies bloomed long ago
In Flanders Fields, but now
The flowers all have gone;
Now few ask where or know
The words to disavow
War’s always dawning sun.
Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. He worked for over thirty years as a lawyer and now works at writing poems.
