My father survived the Western Front and the Italian Front in the Great War, promoted from the ranks to

2nd lieutenant, 1st Battalion, Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, attached to the 5th Division.  He was in

uniform again for WW2 and died aged 50 of TB when I was five.  I have a book about the 5th Division left

by him, containing some handwritten recollections of that terrible conflict.  This poem was the result.

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I stare down at the pen and ink words scrawled across the faded page,

Terse memories of a long dead father of a conflict from a long gone age. 

Like black blood spread on yellowed skin they tell their terrible distant story

Dates recalled, places too and names who fought and were sent to glory.

 

"13/4/18" - my father's hand recalls a date when comrades' blood was spilled

I read his words: "Hocking, Bell, Madden, Scott and Reynolds killed".

Someone somewhere got the news of fathers, uncles, brothers, sons,

The names of friends my father knew who fell before the enemy guns.

 

It is fitting now a hundred years from the horrors that they suffered then

That we, the fortunate successors to those battalions of brave men

Give heartfelt thanks, remembering them; and each and every passing day

Pass on the inheritance that they left - and let the dead still have their say.

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