The birds sing stark in zero hour.
No…nothing but stillness shattered.
Linger lives in breasts, hearts depart.
The tainted honour is past passing.
These men, whose centenary ends,
Keep regards in hollow dust clouds.
For July’s gross hand takes her plough.
Makes it easy for the knife tears,
To hack, to pierce a self so certain.
I often wonder if we could speak of it.