Passchendaele's a rural Belgian village
It's in West Flanders province, Famous, once…
In 1917 the place was flattened
Today you'd never know. Here, poppies dance
It's famous for its pale ale beer and cheeses
Its lazy wind farms turning in the fields
The ripening maize, the hops, the firm potatoes
Its vines, its mules, its flax…no hidden weals
From battle sores. There's roses and bird houses
Hydrangeas, cypress trees, a family cat
There's terracotta tiles on every rooftop
And underground…well, never mind all that.
sheena blackhall
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/passchendaele-2014/
