Dedicated to T. Yates who was killed in action July 1916 at the Somme River France.

A River in Picardy

I wade bent double my tunnel of love,
my sanctuary in desolation,
Barbed wire, mud and filth my saviour,
thorned stigmata of rust upon crucified brows,
Comrades all, severed limbs and breath.
My hope, tommorrow,
red crosses on some calendar field,
Days reside in minutes,
no more the seasons roll from planting to harvest,
Hands that ploughed the field,
make chaff of humanity, all seeds on stoney ground.
Here prayers are answered by despair,
and dawn heralds the whistle, and the call,
"Over the top".

Olias.