(With apologies to David Low.)

The gulls rise as one
Over the empty killing grounds,
Their harsh throats sounding
A broken-backed requiem
For the ugly, twisted forms
That sully the oh-so-elegant lines
Of the muddy trenches.

Soon the rains come again,
Cleansing the wounded earth,
And crimson
Becomes red
Becomes pink
Becomes clear;
Water to sear the heart.

At sunset,
When the rain has stopped,
The bodies of the fallen are gone.
In the morning
Their lives would be honoured,
But no-one is left here now
To remember them.

And a hundred miles away,
In their great halls,
A king's feast about them,
The victors proclaim their triumph to their people:
"The price of lettuce
Has been decreased by one penny -
Official."