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October 29th 2010 print

Julian Woods

Fromelles

From a gouge across France

The plough yields bones

Yearnings race to that time

Their relics and buckles come home

An agitated time gone awry

New coffins won’t shake off the loam

I stood and looked out my door

Onto a highway, and a car stopped

And he said, pointing a gun

“Are you—?” saying my name

I said no, but the shot came.

Carry me anywhere dead

We beat on still faces in vain

You must answer the door

The highway sweeps by the step
The question has the right name.