Passchendaele

Passchendaele Morning mist hung over the front line like a dirge, as far as one could see the landscape was gray as a German infanterist´s uniform and the few trees left standing had been hit by shrapnel a thousand times. Lead heavy stillness no bird flew across this corner of carnage, but the soldiers had gone and the dead had been carried away. Farmers moved in- sons of the land- ploughed fields of sudden death, and planted seeds. And the soil, rich by the blood of unknown soldiers, exploded in many hues of green. Few traces of war left, except for trenches crossing here and there, but they were a good place for rain run off when earth got soaked and a place for hares to hid from the farmer´s shotgun.