Walker sees the mist rise
Over no man’s land
He sees in front of him
A smashed up waste ground
There are no fields or trees
No blades of grass
Just unhurried ghosts are there
Hanging in the wire

Walker’s in the wire
Limbs point upwards
There are no birds singing
The white cliffs of Dover
There are no trees to sing from
Walker cannot hear the wind
Far off symphony
To hear the guns beginning

Walker’s in the mist
Rising over no man’s land
In the battered waste ground
Hear the guns firing