He gifts them Summer fields and even fetches them twilight sun stinting over rows of trees, where fireflies hover and in the midst of paradise you realise his regimen is familiar he has already sent multitudinous pals, adorned in grey and tarnished buckles into fields of blood red poppies and vortex craters filled with iron oxide no greater love than scarred sacrifice to perfect his own dusk
I am thinking of day one of the Somme 1916 with the new model army of clerks and farmers mown down by ill thought out tactics