Hawthorn
Parade grounds square and bare
Spirits in shock still
Hang in the mist.
Boundaries of dried blood
Thick and hanging over
Puttees strewn along,
Bayoneted on thorny swords
Arranged on bones and ribs
Heavy in the muddy verges
Snipers dripping old blood
Into the murky streams;
They say that many berries
Make a severe winter.
Those winters were savage.
© Patricia Turner 18.4.2010
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