The Snowdrop

His head drooped down, as he ventured away from the battlefield,

He had travelled so far, compared to the British

He was one of the last left, no one to talk to

Everyone felt far from home, but they evidently didn’t know what far was,

All the way from the Indian ocean to the Mediterranean to England and now France,

He had been forced into this, because of the British Empire,

Although they had won, he had lost too many

But, as he looked back at the war-stricken field

He noticed the path was alive with fragile flowers,

But all they did was remind him of death.

White, the omen of death, the colour for mourning,

Was everywhere.

Nothing would let him forget, not even nature itself

His head still drooped, like that of a snowdrop,

In a way he could see himself in its position,

The conquest to reach the top of the snow,

And finally see the bright colours of daylight,

After so long in hiding

Head drooped, looking down after the fight.

What was the point, so many hadn’t made it,

So many that you had loved and cared for,

Gone.

Ambar Madhok

13 years old

Wimbledon High School