The clouds had given their all - two days of rain and then a break in which we walked, the waterlogged earth gulping for breath at our feet as we skirted the lake, silent and apart, until the swans came and stopped us with a show of tipping in unison. As if rolling weights down their bodies to their heads they halved themselves in the dark water, icebergs of white feather, paused before returning again like boats righting in rough weather. 'They mate for life' you said as they left, porcelain over the stilling water. I didn't reply but as we moved on through the afternoon light, slow-stepping in the lake's shingle and sand, I noticed our hands, that had, somehow, swum the distance between us and folded, one over the other, like a pair of wings settling after flight.

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Winter Swans by Owen Sheers

For years afterwards the farmers found them – the wasted young, turning up under their plough blades as they tended the land back into itself. A chit of bone, the china plate of a shoulder blade, the relic of a finger, the blown and broken bird’s egg of a skull, all mimicked now in flint, breaking blue in white across this field where they were told to walk, not run, towards the wood and its nesting machine guns. And even now the earth stands sentinel, reaching back into itself for reminders of what happened like a wound working a foreign body to the surface of the skin. This morning, twenty men buried in one long grave, a broken mosaic of bone linked arm in arm, their skeletons paused mid dance-macabre in boots that outlasted them, their socketed heads tilted back at an angle and their jaws, those that have them, dropped open. As if the notes they had sung have only now, with this unearthing, slipped from their absent tongues.

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Mametz Wood by Owen Sheers