Hard to imagine, as the coaches roll
Along small unimportant roads through fens
Blotted by bungalows and ugly sheds
Housing (presumably) industrial hens,
What happened here. The villages are dull,
The citizens opt early for their beds.

Some teenage English girls peer at a trench
And titter at the tour guide’s sly routine;
‘Here’s how they did ablution.’ He pretends
To swab his backside. ‘Naturally the French
Wiped it all back to front.’ This place has seen
Far cruder jokes, far greater crowds of friends.
No sense of absolution though. Instead
The careless ploughing still turns up the dead.