Soft green walls. Valleys of tin. Whistle of death. Shadows of life. White blades of steel, red blades of grass brown holsters rise from devils jaded. Second wave charged in a yellow rip-tide, fell on pale islands on khaki shores of froth. Screams held no accents but what of last whispers? Margaret, Ethel, M’am and why till silence brought the patient fly Hard grey walls. Valley’s of names. Whistling wind wooden platoons leave fleck paint shadows on dying Poppies.