Rye Lane in a time of war by William Anthony Hatchett

We wrap our jeopardy in winter layers
As if unaware of the hostilities
a man is selling vegetables in the square.
The whispering leaves are our enemies.

In their crimson coats, they are warriors.
Their sole purpose, to return to the ground.
‘The earth is great,’ they cry out
as they pull the ripcord and plunge earthbound.

We wear our solemnity like old clothes
with a vague sense that we have been here before
recalling our ancestors in silent remembrances.
Like they were, we are at war.