John Gilham
Menin Gate
the burden of grief, borne all this century
lightens, does it, as its bearers die,
remembrance becomes academic, does it,
now that no one mourns their son or husband here
and those too, who mourn their fathers
are fewer every year
the wreaths ‘To my dear Dad’
the poppies by a name will disappear
and then these children’s children
will pay visits to another place of death
and these neat lawns, off the curriculum,
straggle to forgetfulness
the Last Post will sound for the last time
and even Flanders put that war aside?
Page(s) 24
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