Written in northern France
while thinking of wars
past and present there
and in the Lebanon.

Sylvan soldiers stand
A poplar guard of honour
‘Cross Picardy’s land
Their crests bob faint bows toward
The becalmed dead ‘neath their sand.

Elsewhere the world burns
With flames of hate rekindled
Across other sands
Where cedars famed of old
No longer now bear witness

All the world’s on fire
With the fire of greed, say I,
With the fire of hate
Who will to nirvana go?
Who will bury all this woe?

The corn is golden
The woodlands are all at peace
In Picardy now
Poplars continue to bow
To those interred at their feet.