Walker sees the mist rise
over a no-man’s-land.
He sees in front of him
a smashed up waste-ground.
There are no fields or trees.
No blades of grass.
Just unburied ghosts
hanging in the wire.
Walker’s in the wire,
limbs pointing upwards.
There are no birds singing
The White Cliffs of Dover.
There are no trees to sing from.
He cannot hear the wind.
Far off, a symphony.
Do you hear the guns beginning?
James Walker’s in the mist rising
over no-man’s-land,
in the battered waste-ground,
the big guns firing.