it was like the dead

after battle in grainy pictures;
muddied boots stiff and pointing
upwards;
hands clasped, mouths open.
no shouts just whispers -
heard far off by mothers opening telegrams.
the kit strewn and useless as medals.
there are sometimes rows
covered over, only the shape
of heads.
in others caught too late
the bleached shell of the brain
eyes that stare but cannot see:
strange that the memory was
only provoked by the felling
of a field of pine trees.