One
metal plate held on a chain
Rusted
bumps that once was a name
A
badge of dirt with flakes of gold
On
cloth of slime decaying mould
A
cigarettes box of silver hue
With
a round hole that went right through
Some
letters in a leather pad
Photographs
of a family had
A
revolver clasped in the hand
A
whistle of advance command
Uncovered
from a wooded vale
That
was the field of Passchendaele
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