Iron Harvest at the Somme
Where the fertile clay on chalky ground
Grows wheat, potatoes, luscious grass,
An unwanted, deadly crop is often found
From the time of trenches, shells and gas.
Where farmers still dread the violent thuds
Of ploughs hitting copper, steel or brass
Remnants of the still buried, still lethal duds
Turning up from a battle that once was.
No snipers, behind sandbags or steel plates
Guarding the strip once called no-man’s land
Where a peaceful tractor, may open the gates
To hell with warlike music from Satan’s band.
There, farming can mean danger beyond belief,
And long gone war still causes harm,
unwanted grief.
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