1917

 	sprays of poppies, as in the first line of a poem 
 
 	the flush of spatter reds, nonchalant along ditches  
braced for gas rounds and bubbling lungs  
 
	 fire-step volleys at Arras punctuate routine advances, inch  
by inch the dawn attack 
the mirror of the falling-back 
 
 	low, raking rounds   a timely barrage   a biplane 
nosedown in the slop between trenches   Edward Thomas 
the day before his death, remarked 
on the shell exploding nearby  
Christ that was close  
 
	 the following day, closer still 
 
 	the fiction of a bloodless death   the War Office letter  
his widow clung to  MADAM, A CONCUSSINVE BLAST  
THAT LEFT HIM WITH A SLEEPING LOOK 
 
 	the reality, the shot  
a sniper took 
 
	 the War poets draft poems in the backs of diaries  
 
	 verse usually 
about sorrow sinuous with love   their pastoral inclinations 
however, stowed  
for the duration  acknowledging death  
industrial