Roads To France
And finally I realised that all roads led to France:
The sunlit farm, the bloodstained combe, the whisper of the aspens' dance,
All pointed clearly down the road I did not take by chance.
I could not pick the flowers left at nightfall in the wood,
I could not find the key to go back all the way I wish I could,
Inhabiting this ploughed-down earth where nothing's any good.
The rain, the midnight rain, drummed down upon my lonely shed,