After gunfire, comes birdsong, Weeds dress the rubble In their own green coat, Beasts born to another slaughter Tread land they do not own And will not die for, It is always like this, The field of glory, let Rent free to sheep, The trenches stitched closed Like Europe’s hidden scar, As we pretend the starved Army of dead and dispossessed Live only in old photographs. A forgetful history, preserving What we would call order, Letting it all happen again.
Written in March 2022 by Adam Colclough
