What I Learned At Passchendaele Museum Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The silent cities of the dead were speechless
Till all were gathered in, here given tongue

Trenches had wattle walls of hazel, willow
Topped off with sandbags where fat vermin throng

Jews don't bring flowers to graves, they're for the living
They place small stones upon the headstone top
Les Gueules Cassées, les pauvres ‘Broken faces'
False eyes, false noses, raw as mutton chop

In 1917, Chinese Labour entered
They cleared the battlefields of rotting dead
And delicately carved art on shell cases
‘Where's my beloved? ' in the land of lead.