aunty_marion recited some poetry this morning; but somehow this got my poetry writing juices going ... and this is what came of it. A little late for November Eleventh; but in that same spirit, here are my thoughts about a side-trip my brother Robert and I took while traveling to the U. K. almost ten years ago. My thoughts on ...The Poets Who Died in World War One
Back in '95 I went down from Scottish Glasgow to Bristol by the sea,
And took a bus-ride through hill and hedge -
'Till I arrived at Wötten-under-Edge.
I walked a bit, to see the sights, and though there wasn't much for me,
I saw in a circus, under the cool September sun,
A fount to those who had died in World War I.
I thought not much of it at the time, but was anxious to find some sign
Of any of my ancestry that might still be found.
But I did not much more than take a look around
The narrow streets, the crooked paths and the hilly steep incline.
There was a cathedral, with an old rector by my name, and a little shop
Where they sold souvenirs: silver-plated spoons, at three pounds a pop.
But only now, in my remembrance pale, and somewhat rent
Appears the meaning of Fate in that last century's monument:
For Thomas, Owen, Shaw-Stewart, Sorley, and McCrae;
Brooke, Kilmer, Seeger, Hodgson, Rosenberg, but not Alway.
My line served there and elsewhere, but did not sing
in the dark of that hideous night:
Yes, we served anon, in place or time, but did not die
in the ancient Great War's fight.
- David Alway, 16-November-2004