Ypres

The pasture rolls a little, sweet and plain,
perhaps a little boring. Herding cows
ignore you. You unfold the map again:
that blood still cakes the mouldboard of the plough.
The Brabants' fusty sweat-steam in your eyes,
you squint and hear the fragile thrum of cars
along the A19, that crow that flies
in such a sag. A burst of sunlight mars
the clearest view you had of slender smoke.
You stop mid-field, removed of shade and hope.