Dark and rusted fruits of the Great War
Still lie buried like poisonous potatoes
Every year farmers collect these
Unexploded shells and ordinances
In what is known as the Iron Harvest
The trenched swamp of the Western Front
Is the grocery aisle of harboured death
A ploughshare ripping the earth
Adds another name to the wall of remembrance
One out of four
Is the estimate
Of shells dropped by the Germans
On France that did not explode
For every square metre
Reaching up from the coast to the Swiss front
A ton of bombs rained down
Sending men to oblivion
The scythe of history
Cuts still
In France
Cambodia
Mozambique
And yet