Walker sees the mist rise
Over a 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 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
Do you hear the guns beginning?

Walker's in the mist
Rising over no-man's-land
In the battered waste-ground
The big guns firing