Across the moor, there’s your home, there’s your mother at the doorway. Come home, love. The blue as it dusks. Tread through the grass that rain has turned submissive, tread though your feet sink a bit, and you wince a bit, never much liked your feet sinking, but haven’t you always been a brave boy? The caws of a distant crow. Perhaps it’s a child, calling out to its mother, asking for her warm lap to rest its head and cry on. Carry on. You haven’t the time to pay attention. The little door of that little house must be shut in the face of the dark. The caws. Nearer now. Somewhere from that oak tree. The knife-cool of the mist that pricks your bare arms, your bare head, your bare heart. No, that is not an oak blackened by the day’s rain. Come home! That is a hand burned beyond salvation. That is not just mud underneath the damp grass. Scoop it up with a finger and you’ll see the blood in it. And you’ll see the blood is fresh, and warm, and unquiet like death. And look and see, it is not grass at all, but lifeless bodies with uniforms bloodied past their nations’ colours, sprawled across the stretch to that little—oh, look—the little door is shut.