Parchment leaves curled
in regiments
Await a Kaiser’s reach,
Ignore the feet of children
Kicking into oblivion
Their warlord,
London-bred natures.
Where the boys tread
An eddy born of cobweb wind
Raises the elementals
Brings faeries from their woodland beds
To fling secret, invisible threads
Of wild-eyed enchantments,
Hope and featherd flight.
The light flickers
In Florence’s battlefield lamp,
Honoured in stone
Amongst the Field Marshalls
She is prone to gaze
To Green Park,
To offer a kindness of home
To the lonely soldiers
Who have known only
The blown-apart tragedy,
Enacted endlessly, clearly,
Until this
Eleventh day
Of the eleventh month
When a child kicks leaves
Calling unknown
To angels of tattered peace.