The Pilgrim’s True Path

It started with a glance out of the bus,
A blood red disc of a sandstorm sun,
It was ten past ten.

The light numinous rather than luminous,
As we opened the door to leave Bisley church,
Emigrant-ghosts waiting for the Bristol cart,
And a six week voyage to New South Wales.
It was twenty to eleven.

We walked through deep, shadowed holloways,
Walking the Bisley Path,
High above the valley marshlands,
Through woodland shrouded in the strange glow
Of another world’s grey-green light,
The harbinger of Hurricane Ophelia,
The wind now shrieking through the creaking trees,
Leaves falling like some autumn snowstorm.

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The Christmas Truce

   When war broke out, the British public cried, ‘We’ll be in Berlin by Christmas’, But by Christmas thousands had died, As Mons, the Marne, Ypres and Messines cut Down the youth of Europe, while Flanders floods Drowned dying, dead and alive....

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