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.