For Wilfred Owen

In my dreams you yet live.
Smoky tendrils cover our battlefields.
Young men bent and broken before our time.
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Smiling faces frozen in time, keep some part of my soul still young.
Was it a sword or Whistling Ninety Nine that broke you, and shattered our line?
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Acidic deathly green fingers caught some of us in those shell holes of Flanders.
Others died in the Levantine with Richard at the gates of Acre, for the simple want of a cup of water.
I know all of my mates, forever young, forever tragic.
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Proud lions asking for the false wounds of bravery to battered about their brows.
Honor and Courage are two sides of a phony coin, spent carelessly before swine.
Asking and crying out for their first loves, wondering where it all went wrong.
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Many’s a time the last word they utter is to the Savior of all lost boys…Mother.
Unscrupulous men, and crooked politicians will take us from those that we love.
The clarion rings a false note of duty, stirring gentle soul to defend hearth and home.
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At the end of the day, tis not  king, nor country, nor gold sovereign’s bright, that calls us to the fore.
Orders can make a body move into harms way only so many times.
We do it for the man on our left, and the man on our right.
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So, may all kings and leaders be damned.
I hope that some day they can see my nightly review.
Dress right Dress! Sharpen up that line! Eyes Front!.
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We present arms, as we march towards the barrage.
Our badges of courage we carry in our hearts.
The memories of our fallen, keep us going through that long terrible night.

DS Baker