A cemetery, you may think, but

No bodies lie beneath, just roots;

No unattested arms remain,

No pairs of sweaty, unclaimed boots.

 

Quite soon there will be vines and grapes,

And then the succulence of wine;

No trace of blown-off body parts,

Detached by shell shot or by mine.

 

The volunteers who tend the place

Sense no souls planted underground;

They prune and tidy, unaware

Of each poor wretch the onslaught found,

 

For far away, in such a spot,

The villains scratch holes for the brave;

They’re dumped, deprived of pleasure’s gift,

Without the taste of wreath or grave.