Battleground Tour Poem by Sheila Sharpe

Around the traveller
the mourning lace of leafless trees
is as still as laundered unworn white ruffs
atop a dark torso of ancientlandscape
grey rocks fringe the emerald grass of
the emptied battlegrounds
and from the stiff branches of trees
unblinking eyes watch
feeding imagination
with a sense of never more
the interspersing of feathers
ruffling in the wind's whine
playing a sad, wordless hymn
of remembrance