where they sell poignant artefacts to tourists
who thank their lucky stars
returning to cosy coaches and cars.
Bones are still being churned up
in green Flanders Fields once covered in mud,
cries of despair, soldiers dripping with blood.
The bullet has made a round hole
in the rusty shovel. I wonder if its owner
survived the war or perished like so many.
I can't imagine his fear in that grim place.
Perhaps he is buried in Tyne Cot
never to return to his own front door,
another victim of a gruesome war.