Staggering beside the carts, like dull warhorses,

we stumble along endless tracks and mud-souped ditches,

always stooped, intent upon the next step.

Rattling behind, grisly chains of disarticulated bones,

tied by tendons and ligaments, trail beyond past horizons,

 a century of war.

Rainbows always cry.

The holly bears a bloody fruit.

All victors ethically vanquished.

But look, the wheel turns and churns upon the poppy seed,

which flowers, frail thin droplets, brave blood bright.

Peace and Goodwill to all men.

The Goodwill Wheel turns.

Peace was never all.

Goodwill frees the warhorse, the uniforms, the dead,

whose last thought was of better ahead.

Breaks the chains, articulates the bones, reforms the skeletons.

Past fuses present, Goodwill energises Peace,

    Goodwill purveys Peace to all men.

 

Have a great Christmas