Suggested by a 1915 Thomas Hardy poem of the same title
The spring sun speckles the grass
in a dell of wintry trees.
It could be anywhere in Europe.
It is Dorset. Smoke
from Thomas Hardy's wood-edge cottage
drifts beyond the beech trees.
It is Belgium. At Langemark
the sun-specks light the names
on flat black marble slabs.
German infantry lie sixteen deep,
cut down. Bare branches shield them.
The four dark watchers brood.
It is where our stories take us;
where Sigurd slew the dragon,
licked his blood-bespattered hand
and heard the wood-bird's words,
the burden understood, singing of
his folly in the gore of the speckled glade.
The Pity Of It by Barry Tempest | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
