Ypres,2014 Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Ypres Cloth Hall, ruined, blown to shreds
Patched up, invisibly mended, stands
As its old/new self, a replica
Two fingers up to Fate
Good flax of Flanders doesn't fray so easy

The busy shuttles of bullet and machine gun
Unstitched the tapestry of this fair country
The fields drank blood for years,
Yield harvests now fed by the silent dead

Within the museum, it's battle over-kill
Mind-blowing assault on the senses
There's a clock face riddled with holes
There's a horse trussed up like a roast
In rolls of pronged barbed wire.

There's Mary Borden, stepping out from the screen
In her nurse's uniform
Talking of mangled heads and chests
With holes as big as your fist

There's rows of prosthetic limbs, some hooks for hands
In the so-called ‘Verwoeste Gewesten'
The devastated lands

After, I stumble out into the blazing sunshine
Out to the screech and whine of carnival, carousel
Out to Euro-youth gorging on frites and cokes
Out to German sausage and blue ice cream

Roll up, roll up to the shooting galleries
Nobody jumps but me in the sunny square