In carefree semi-skimmed sunshine

after shocks from Spain hit my spine.

Humble names speak here from the ground

sotto voce fallen and found,
on a mild memento mori

unshriven in loam not sorry,

both monument and wallflower

hidden in an icon’s bower.
Etched errata at the bottom

search now for a vanquished aplomb,

the silent scream of life part born

melting odourless and torn.
What was Jarama to them then

or they to Jarama such men?

They didn’t know they’d juxtapose

Bard and Beano and red Scots rose.