This wounded land

Rich and nourished, the ground

Sleeps a while

As though to rest and plan

For the coming campaign.

Bold and cautious it begins

To thrust and jab

It's way up through the decay

Of the last offensive.

It never stops, it marches on

And on and on

Unrelenting, undaunted, untrammelled

Along on a path long since planned.

It is beaten, cut, burnt and blocked

As battles are fought

For every move a counter move

For every loss, a victory elsewhere.

Campaigns change with time

A knife becomes a plough

A cart becomes an engine

And the land remains

Wounded but unbowed.