Walker sees the mist rise Over a no-mans land. He sees in front of him A smashed up waste-ground, There are no fields or trees, No blades of grass. Just unburied 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, a symphony. D'ya hear the guns beginning?
Walker's in the mist, rising Over no-mans land. In the battered waste-ground The big guns firing.