Nothing prepares the mortal soul
For regimented lines of limestone,
Paced in shell shocked silence, broken

Only by distant birdsong competing for attention.
Skylarks now the screaming shells, broadcasting,
Recounting war torn stories of loss, valour and pain. A chaotic chorus

For a generation’s youthful exuberance, naivety primed
Then cut down by conflict’s precussive breathlessness. Entrenched;
History re- told by its summer song,

Soaring, then vanishing into times horizon far
Beyond the foreign fields of living memory. Gone.
Departed, leaving a quietened consolation of tears

Reflecting in the deeply carved graffiti of conflict.

(Eric)