War Grave

The pickup driver refuses cash 
when he sees the wreath of poppies 
pressed to my hands by an aunt 
at Heathrow, so I ride in the truck bed 
with Berber shepherds, peer at maps,
the long brown hills, and wonder
what I’ll say. Then a worn face nods

and from the desert springs a tiny square 
of England: grass perfect then row after
after row after row of headstones. “Jouer!” 
I shout, to a boy in a Barcelona shirt 
who rolls his football, embarrassed. 
“Play on!” I cry, until he weaves away 
between the graves as I look for Uncle Jim. 

We move together, the boy and I, one fast 
one slow, until we reach the Coldstream Guards: 
Chris, Leslie, John, Frank, and Jim in front, 
Charlie and Will behind, Fred Newsome at the back. 
I lay the wreath as the boy darts forward, and whisper 
something small of home — the fields, the moors, 
the curve of a bay — to these lads of the north 
picked last at Dunkirk and first to face Messi away.