Ypres,2014

The Ypres Cloth Hall, ruined, blown to shreds Patched up, invisibly mended, stands As its old/new self, a replica Two fingers up to Fate Good flax of Flanders doesn't fray so easy The busy shuttles of bullet and machine gun Unstitched the tapestry of this fair country The fields drank blood for years, Yield harvests now fed by the silent dead Within the museum, it's battle over-kill Mind-blowing assault on the senses There's a clock face riddled with holes There's a horse trussed up like a roast In rolls of pronged barbed wire. There's Mary Borden, stepping out from the screen In her nurse's uniform Talking of mangled heads and chests With holes as big as your fist There's rows of prosthetic limbs, some hooks for hands In the so-called ‘Verwoeste Gewesten' The devastated lands After, I stumble out into the blazing sunshine Out to the screech and whine of carnival, carousel Out to Euro-youth gorging on frites and cokes Out to German sausage and blue ice cream Roll up, roll up to the shooting galleries Nobody jumps but me in the sunny square