It’s a shame that the leaves,
Are so wet,
And so dead:
We could have warmed our cockles,
With hot chocolate and bread.
For these are dark days ahead,
Amongst trenches and graves,
Infecting us gently,
With truth that depraves.

No smoking and lights out by eight,
Best behaviour tomorrow,
At the cemetery gate.
We thought we’d be saved,
By flick-knives and playing cards,
Smuggled aboard,
The fluffy French innards,
Of a fresh baguette.
The cemetery the next stop.
And in Winter, no less,
To sign the big book:
At Death’s new address.

A different Winter folded us up,
In the white flag of nowhere,
Amidst falling fractals,
Cold enough to crack the air.
We crossed fields of graves,
To make the headcount,
But back on the bus,
There were no answers.

Until a voice whispered,
From the ailing blossoms,
Through the smoky glass,
To our air-conditioned hearts,
A truth as stark as blood,
And as quiet as the moon, 
Drowned out by engines,
Always leaving too soon.