The notice told he’d gone away, was lost in France
(you half-knew the truth but prayed he hadn’t fallen
Our boy has crossed the sea, it said, to fight the Hun,
not long out of short pants, a summer shy of nineteen;
What did you expect? A sighting of a man who could
be him now fighting in another regiment or mending
buried in French mud that was a French wood once?
You listened but no word came. Hope faded fast
He never made it back or even out the ranks. He gave
his life up for the flag but his story passes down the years
A name in stone has fixed his place in history. Your fingertips
can read each letter. The dust the chisel made has scattered
but still brings tears when the wind blows from the East.
Categorised in: Article
This post was written by Simon Cockle