I who have neither
Lived nor died
Stand in this gold field
Crucified.
I wear the rags
Of other men
Who will not ask
For them again.
I fade beneath
A sky of brass:
Like other men,
My flesh is grass.
Birds spoil the dead
Of eyes and nose.
I guard the ears
And starve the crows.
[See also: The NS Poem: A standstill]
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This article appears in the 26 Jul 2023 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Special