Scarred from the relentless passage of time
pitted with acid rain and covered with grime
forgotten by those who oft pass it by
gazed rarely upon by anyone’s eye.
A proud little monument in a faraway field
with now faded words and a family shield
his nation had called and he’d gone off to war
though he and his friends didn’t really know what for.
And if you should wander and wonder at it
you’ll probably feel as if you have been hit
by the words that you see that are writ thereupon
“It is with such sadness that I bury my son.”
The last words they had, came back home in a letter
“It can’t go on Father, it has to get better
the killing is awful, they’re young men much like us
Please kiss dearest Mother, and a Merry Christmas.
©Joe Wilson – His last words (25 December 1914)… 2014