conceived in a cellar, of

a Tommy home on leave,

mother waving mistletoe,

shortly she would grieve

official dad inert upstairs

exempt due to his arches,

Tommy back to trenches

bullets or forced marches

killed in action in the mud

in my blood's a war hero,

official dad a profiteer,

moral fibre less than zero

the duality in mistletoe,

fertile of ...

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dusk in the copse is foggy, and after rain there's

mud, so you watch your step as rubber

boots kick life into the mess.

no rainbow

lights the ploughed churning, or stars sputter at such

perfect mire, it harks instead at

mad trenches, branches

dripping onto brambles sharp as barbed wire.

can worms survive this clay or do

gills get jammed as mouths and rifles did, each

...

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Archaeology was my chosen field,

Artefacts and pottery sherds, that sort of thing

Above all I strove to date that

Bronze Age hair those white thighs, her

Confusing layers of strata.

In muddy trenches our

Trowels clashed and one wet field trip

We excavated each other.

Epochs later I observed her digging in a charity shop

An old ruin now,

A bit like myself

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