"There wil be days and days and days like this."
She stands up on the hill and smiles looking
To a rising sun over lush green

Later is only memory
Returned to metropolitan 
Exchanges and the
Sundry hides made
Of men

Or at least their sweat
The dreams once rampant
The night sweats
The exhanges

Ghosts of hope
For
Ghosts of special paper

Significant

"I think about France more than I can say
I often think of it"

Her husband knows what follows is deception
Recollection unhinged by a clash
Of green on green

Shall we eat again
There is plenty