a soundless voice from a western front
  pierces a well-worn exile of self--
    a gentle prod on a mirrored solitude.

the progress of years measured in metres,
 in destinies so easily discarded--
  swampy meadows dragging us into earth...
 in steps not foreseen, now rushing--
  barbed wire clinging to our heels,
  as we fight desperately for breath
     and clamber above to taste
       the fragile warmth of a winter's sun...