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U3A Writing: Aftermath

Barbara Tregonning’s poem tells of the grim aftermath of battle.

His eyes still staring up in puzzlement
Though sightless now,
And all his last breath gone.
Pre-dawn the valley slumbered quietly,
Only first cheepings in the sharp, clear air
From friendly, leaning hillsides.
No hint of what to come.

Then, just as wood-smoke quavers probed and curled
From farm house chimneys, promising the day
They came -
Cold fury of their war machines
Tearing mortar from stone, soft flesh from bone;
Evil, and stench, and carnage.
All done, they rolled away.

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