Douaumont

On a quiet road this April day

We park the car and thread our way

Through trees which overgrow a scene

Old photos tell us once has been

Barbed wire and oozing clay where died

A million men. Now ash and elm provide

Shelter from the sun and breeze

And milling tourists take their ease.

This woodland was put out to farm

Long since. No shellbursts now alarm

The missel-thrush which comes to rest

On a nearby bush above her nest.

If you tread between the nursery rows

You trip on ancient roots from those

Stumps of trees destroyed by guns

Fired by Frenchmen and by Huns.

Nature still cannot conceal

The contours of this pitted hill -

Though the woodland’s quite regrown

Over rusted iron and occasional bone

That lie beneath the pastoral green.

No one digs. Skulls and tibias can be seen

Stacked with care in their new abode -

The tall grey bonehouse up the road.

Lest natural man should quite forget

The dead, an ossuary shell is set

On a green but hollow, poisoned hill

Which repels advancing nature still.

A few survivors yet resist

The call of generations past

How strange their moving bones remain

To remind us we forget their pain.

©Terry Hodgson2020