The tempest hisses back its spit-laden rage,
terracotta buckles in its wake,
scolds this land whose bluster
is met with forceful retribution.
Many panes have rattled
since the last gasps of Blitzkrieg ailed,
none the better judged,
the inhabitants
no longer know
the scratch of malnourishment,
the gall of a trench,
the tearing of flesh,
the grit of the fight.
Worse than forgotten;
reduced to vacant vectors
they fill the air,
curse the streets,
proclaim this is their freedom won,
ignorant in the bank holiday sun.
Too late this wail of a weeping world
when the damage is already done.
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