Across the flatness of the fields
the names of the bombed cities
recur like chapters in a leather-bound history
from a room in another life:
Antwerp, Brussels, Rotterdam …
In a field in the distance, a windmill
prototype shape, like a crucifix
distinctive and familiar as cows
scattered in a canal-latticed field
hedged by a spiky line of black.
Someone should paint this landscape:
that ancient clump of trees in an empty field
that windmill, the shadowy grove and,
beneath layers of needles and cones,
flaking metal fragments from one war or another
that would be preserved.