(Written during a visit to the Somme)
Who are these men who lie in unmarked graves,
Who never made it home
to English Weather, waiting girls?
For whom youth died in rifle fire,
A roar of blood,
And falling blind through foreign mud?
Barely immortalised in impassive stone,
Where every age, like silent shells still falling,
Erodes their final post in time,
Wears down their names
Until only a glorious untruth remains,
Of angels bearing fallen soldiers,
Of fanfares and honour,
A lie to sell
To the black-clad widows of war.
These mouths were silenced long before
They could pass onto us what they knew they should.
Their lives do not touch us now,
If they ever did,
And time rapes stone,
Strips them of identity,
Cuts them loose across eternity,
At the End of Everything
there are no absolutes.
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43 - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X
The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede