WELSH BORDER

It is a dark night, but noisy.
Cars pass on the road,
Their lights dissect me.
In the fields are the trees,
Brushed by a few stars.
The owls are restless.
People have died here,
Good men for bad reasons,
Better forgotten.
Trees grow no arrows
For the dead, enlistment
Of memories is over.
The real fight goes on
In the mind; protect me,
Spirits, from myself.