Church bells herald the invasion of rain
upon the retreating fields of summer.
A stranger of a day from October
introduces the anniversary.
Beneath the steeple I peer through drizzle
and imagine you peering back from war
at a curious identical name
without the tart whiff of cordite and fear.
You toss mud and blood farthings in my name.
I toss fool’s gold euros in yours I see.
Off with the heads of Kings and bureaucrats.
Remember the poor bloody infantry.
I win the toss and ask the first question.
The invasion becomes a why monsoon
and a what would I have done over there.
But the answers stay in near distant time.