Tracks and Signs

Up along the Boulogne road
the cold remains of a camp:
black ring of stones, a cup of ash,
fish scales and spines; a space
of flattened grass beneath a gorse bush.

Who was here? Had he known the war
and run away? Had he sat looking
in his hands at what he’d done?
Look at the grass, spored with blood
from whoever it was.



 

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