Does the river still flow my love?
Does the corn still wave in the breeze?
Do the flowers still carpet Portholme my love?
Do they dance in time with the trees?

For I see no rivers of blue, no clear stream of life,
My harvest is of men cut down, pruned by the Devil's knife,
No flowers dance here amongst the bullet and shell,
A world of brown and grey, a miserable treeless hell.

Does St Marys still ring true on the hour my love?
Does the coal smoke hang heavy and drift in the mist?
Do women still gather at The Grove my love?
Do they long for news of the men they once kissed?

For no bells ring here, no reassuring chime,
My drifting smoke brings cries of gas, masks applied just in time,
No place for women here, no love, no joy,
A world fit for no one, neither God, man or boy.

Does the Mill wheel still turn my love?
Does the stubble burn still tan the autumn sky?
Do the women pray for the end my love?
Do they still have tears left to cry?

For nothing turns here but the cogs of war,
My life does not matter, just one of so many, just a man of the Corps,
No Place for hope here, just prayer and luck,
A world of steel, flame, screams and muck.

Will we meet again my love?
I hope and pray that we will,
And then I'll hold your hand my love
And we'll laugh again by the Mill

Roger Leivers, 2014

At the going down of the sun and in the morning. We will remember them.