The limitless ennui

I was going to play about with this photo, but the more that I look at it, the more I realise how hard it would be to improve upon. In fact, I've been staring at it for hours, transfixed. How it took me back to lunchtime. The heat of the day. Barely a fly buzzing. The only sound, that of the pensioner's brogues as he crunched over the gravel on his way to pick up a sweet chilli chicken wrap, a carton of coconut water and an eat natural peanut and almond bar.
Och, go on, you're indulging me. I know you don't want to read about my meal deal. But that heat of the day thing. I know you like that. I know you want a bit of poetry, don't you? Well I do.

There are many dead in the brutish desert,
who lie uneasy
among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit
stunted ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate
and necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still.
Many who for various reasons, or because
of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here
and fought among the clutching gravestones,
shivered and sweated,
cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed
the spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe
and fast embedded in quicksand of Africa
agonized and died.
And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of dust.

There were our own, there were the others.
Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal.
There were no gods and precious few heroes.