Walter Marsh lies in the corner of a foreign field,
That never will be England.
He lays, supine
No whine doth utter
As machine guns stutter
Silver arrows overhead
In hope of making living flesh
Yet dead,
There is no Cupid here.
Walter stares at mournful skies
That realise
Man's eternal folly,
And shed another tear
But fear
That tears are not enough.
All around
The sound of the dying
Fill the acrid air,
Boys beg absent mothers
For relief
From the thief
That steals their breath away
Today.
Fat black rats
Sit patiently
Pruning blood-stained whiskers,
Staring, in silence
At their next meal.
In Chateaus, far behind the lines
The whines
Of florid Generals
May be heard
As they, with whisky breath
Send countless thousands
To a pointless death.
Walter's blood
Feeds French mud
His last breath
His best,
Lest
We forget.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
