A tidy copse of men
Face full square the eye
That never lies.
Less rooted than the fir and pine,
Their feet will, at posterity's last blink,
Tread out the humus aisle
Into the forest nave.
Holy ground, sanctified by grandeur.
The coupling place
Where bone and sinew wedded to the blade,
Amputate its pillars domed by sky.
And amber sap, from fag end stumps
Clings to their rising songs.
Man's work it is on Coed Tywi.
So how much sweeter then, this killing
Than the other,
Mouldering grey without such ceremony,
Above the silent Somme
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