as the wind
that shook
the barley
bites the hand
we stand
upon the edge of
no-man's land
looking down
across the
fields of mud
and as the
clouds skit
scud across
the yellowing moon
I wonder
if I came
too soon
upon this place
where heaven
and earth
do meet
in muddied hell
and as the
church bell
tolls
for even mass
and armed men
creep crawl
and scurry past
a bright red
poppy bloods
the freezing
grass
"the wind" sets the mood perfectly and chillingly in this piece, as you ponder muddied fields and your place in time here. Really a classic for the world condition right now.
