They Can'T Find Home

an’t find home trees trunked as pillars a cathedral gallery edges my road through french farmland waking in mists of spring brown arched buttresses push green into the face of god a somber holiness escapes, the sound echoed among foliage floating above I sit to rest and there silently arise between rough bark men, grey as leaf mold approach to offer their deaths carried gingerly in cupped hands taste this, our tales of mortar shelled star burst murder on nights yellow with gas lungs choking closed blown into eternity by mined field’s crop of demise or whining whistle of rifle spew entering warm sacred bodies oozing life their beauty, sweet youth gone to earth beneath grasses where they should be lover’s heat now all, wander still those blood soaked fields mud, noise and death laid down to pave a path for old men dreaming glory.