Forncett St Peter, Norfolk
Your blood moving in the quiet wind;
No longer afraid of the rabbits
Hurrying through the tall grass
Or the faces laughing from
The beach and among cold trees.
Alone in the sleeves of grief,
Listening to clothes falling
And your flesh touching God;
To the chatter and backslapping
Of Christ meeting heroes of war.
Your words have passed
The lights shining from the East
And the sound of flak
Raping graves and emptying seasons.
You do not hear the dry wind pray
Or the children play a game called soldiers
In the street