Ypres (For Kate) Every year a grim harvest of iron And lost bones of the young infantry, Plough-shares turning Ypresian clay, A fatal furrowed marl of history. Funereal birds festoon the fences, Witness to each chance exhumation. They disperse suddenly, as if by gunfire. The planting season proceeds in hope Of growth and rich fields of fruition, Flaxen cloudscapes and a gauze of rain, Produce from crop and orchard blossom. But the prolific loam’s a paradox— So much grief just below the surface. Rod Moran Irony In splendid bud at the cemetery gate, Emerging luminous from the…
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