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We are the dead short days ago we lived
we lived felt dawn saw sunset glow loved
and were love and now we lye in Flanders
Field.

Frame-full of rain through the water and
glass I saw the crushed grass how it seemed to
stream away in lines like seaweed on the tide or
blades of wheat leaning under the wind.

The ripple and splash of rain on blurred glass seemed
that it briefly said as  walked by something the
dry grass bent under the pane something of a
swaying clarity which blindly echoed this lonely
afternoon of memories and missed desires while the wintery
rain (unspeakable the distance of the mind) Runs on the standing windows and away.