Walker sees the mist rise

Over no man's land

He sees in front of him

A smashed up waste ground

There are no fields or trees

No blades of grass

Just unhurried 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 symphony 

To hear the guns beginning



Walker's in the mist

Rising over no man's land

In the battered waste ground

Hear the guns firing