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Mick knows where the dead go.
He followed them abruptly,
From that hawthorn field corner
Hot and quiet and smelling of pain.

Looking now you see the Somme or Ypres.
Fertile ground with death overgrown
And moments of violence blurred away
With grass and hedge and hoe.

They speak of place memory;
Of an imprint in nature of some violent act
But in the corner of that forever field
Lark calls, and the sway wind takes on.