So I scene it, boys of fifteen
broken
by their exile,
condemned
to wander
foreign
footpaths, wretches
driven
under concrete:
cold
and safe, safe and cold.
I
also saw a wanderer’s
return
begin, begin.
It
began in a baking tray,
bubbling
away like so much
shoulderfat,
spreading
like
a shepherd’s grin.
When
concrete grey wears
thin,
it seems we recall
the
art of elegy: those
who
defend my country
shall
fall; I who wander
(they
say) am seer of all.
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