Schoolgirls in the mud.
 
 
 
 
 
No kings land this,
a sodden tip,
all the pain comes here,
all that hidden fear.
 
Lost round the back lanes,
a golf club for the dead,
oh Lord you promised bread.
 
As always, it was.
 
The cap badges,
the sailors they forgot.
 
The long straight rows of the trees,
young saplings everywhere,
many dying in the wet muddy shale.
 
Birds nesting amidst the mist,
the river headed towards Lichfield, 
a gentle kiss,
like Waterloo sunset.
 
 
They came the survivors,
in ones and twos,
a couple of comrades,
in each others arms.
 
And that blazer,
dark like the night,
covered in coloured stars.
 
Here the wages of Mars
and the widow in black,
with a new lantern. 
 
I read the list of ships,
the toll the 17 year old gunners took,
writ like a book,
I hope they're talking now,
at the friendly Port Rush bar.
 
In twenty years it will be a marvel. 
 
As the fit old gardeners,
wait for the new apprentices,
and show kindness to strangers.
 
The iron road goes on,
for ever and ever.
 
There is an home for us all,
at the Lichfield field,
never again in our time. 
 
St Trinian's and Joan Hunter Dunn.
I hope they're all having fun.  
 
I did not see the lone soldier
hero to a post
his eyes on his friends. 
 
I will lay flowers next time.
 
The table at the end of the universe,
awaits us all.

~