Potatoes at the roundabout,
Herons by the canal,
Pointing the way
On the last day.
We make our way to Tyne Cot,
Last and biggest,
An endless wall of names
Row upon row of stones,
The dead held here forever.
This fought over land
That emerged from mud
Now a perpetual piece of Empire:
A never to be forgotten field.

25.10.2017 Tyne Cot

Grace

For everything there is seasoning ;
There’s a time to eat and a time to fast;
A time to fill your plate and a time to empty it;
A time for the first supper and a time for the last.

25.10.2017, Poperinge