She hears gravel level
Level step of a step sergeant
Loud chest his jangling medals of charge
His thumb web black from repeated discharge within a yard of target
He hands over a cream card, says Mrs Hargreaves my heart grieves
When one leaks, indeed all England bleeds
I know that he died on his feet, there is no defeat with ultimate victory
He is part of the whole that makes history, he did his level best
The news level them, the letter devilsent is pent up into a wrinkled ball
The house in disarray, as if a tear-by tempest had whisked through
The drink does nothing, the blade is a temptress
There is no redress
His chest is delivered, from the mess at Arras
His things are set on his dresser, his folded vest and the mess that was left of his dress shirt
His best shirt, his equestrian gear, his leatherbound book of frustratingly difficult quadratic equations that made his father’s head hurt
Everytime they pass his picture the waterworks
The father works as many shifts as the factory will give him
She drinks all day, balm for her years in prison.
Alchemisland 
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