Under Sack Cloth between The Cracks,
In ditches by The Workman’s Tracks,
Beyond the Bawdy Ale soaked House,
The Scarer Wakes with Field Mouse
The Dust of Bones that fell in France
Was scattered here to bring advance,
To farmers fields with Heavy Plough
Our Dead are churned to feed us now.
A Bastard Boy no Mother Mourns,
The Blasted Cannon of Empires Dawn,
His Clapper Claps to scare the Birds
Each Clattered Beat Drowns out his Words.
Across these Patchwork Jaded Hills
An echo gently whispers still,
Of all the voices never heard
Drowned out by time to scare a bird.
© Wolfgar 2020