Marching through the emptied border regions
All is quiet, although I sense hidden watchers
reviewing me, checking I mean no harm as I
cross the battered and bloodied earth.
Here in the Marches the shortest month draws to its close.
Maybe the tendrils of new plant life that I tramp past will stay
above the ground now that the snow is faded and the fighting has stopped?
Remembering my brother who gave up his life in the last battle, blood flowed over this cold and sodden ground.
Crops this year will be lush, giving us Borderers a little something back;
hope though, as March nears will we get hope back?
A play on the three meanings of March: the month, to walk purposefully; a disputed border region