Among the fields where poppies swayed
Beyond the guns and smoke,
The soldiers rested wearily,
Their silence barely broke.

Boots lay scattered on the grass,
Rifles stacked nearby.
Some men stared across the hills,
Some watched the drifting sky.

Then softly through the quiet air
A trumpet’s voice arose.
Bright notes dancing on the wind
Across the brief repose.

Young Tom stood tall upon the rise,
Trumpet pressed to lips.
A Highland lad in tartan worn,
With music at his fingertips.

The tune he played was full of life,
Of home and brighter days.
Of crowded pubs and harvest fields,
And childhood’s simple ways.

The soldiers slowly turned to hear
The melody unfold.
And hardened men who feared no guns
Felt memories take hold.

One saw his mother’s kitchen fire,
Warm bread upon the board.
Another heard his children laugh
Beyond the cottage door.

One pictured pints in crowded inns,
A pipe’s sweet curling haze.
Another saw his sweetheart smile
From happier younger days.

Tears ran silent down worn cheeks,
Cutting through the grime.
For just a moment war released
Its grip on them through time.

“Play another tune, young Tom!”
A weary sergeant cried.
And laughter rose among the men
Where sorrow used to hide.

Young Tom obliged with smiling eyes
And raised the trumpet high.
Another joyful song took flight
Beneath the open sky.

The notes rolled out across the hills
Like sunlight after rain.
And every heart beat stronger there
Despite the grief and pain.

Then suddenly the music changed.

A sharp and urgent sound.

The call that every soldier knew
Rang hard across the ground.

Officers shouted through the camp,
“Stand to! Back to line!”
The brief sweet peace was swept away
By duty’s hand and time.

The trumpet now cried out for war,
Its voice both proud and grim.
No longer songs of home and hope,
But battle’s marching hymn.

In rows of three the soldiers formed,
With rifles held in hand.
And following Tom’s steady call,
They marched toward no man’s land.

The poppies bent beneath their boots,
The sky grew dark once more.
Yet still the trumpet led them on
Toward thunder, smoke, and war.

Its final notes rang clear and brave
Above the guns’ wild roar.
Then somewhere near the shattered line
The trumpet played no more.

Silence fell upon the fields
As evening cloaked the slain.
And where young Tom had proudly stood,
Only echoes still remained.

But some men swore in later years,
When night winds crossed the plain,
They heard a distant trumpet call
Through poppies after rain.

A final tune for fallen souls,
For brothers lost in flame.
And every note still carried softly
The memory of Tom Browns name.

Paul Baldry

I wrote this poem to honour the battlefield musicians whose trumpet calls carried both comfort and command through the horrors of war. Inspired by resting soldiers listening to a lone trumpeter among fields of poppies, it reflects how music could briefly return men to memories of home, laughter, and peace — before duty called them once more toward the guns, and silence claimed another soul.

#WarPoetry #LestWeForget #BattlefieldMusic #MilitaryHistory #Remembrance #Poppies