The grass is grey, crisp bones poking through.
Buttercups, they are, dandelion clocks
chiming the century after the forests fell.
The echoes fertilise their corms, pushing to flower
at every survivor who stumbles across
holding up their torn petal-banners to give their voices
to the voiceless. Broken, worn, silenced before
by those who did not live to regret their iron fists, those who
choked on their black nectar as they feasted from golden mugs,
no-one left to mourn.