I have visited the 1st World War battlefields several times. I have attended the ceremony at the Menin Gate in Ypres honouring those lost with no known grave and I have sat weeping in the cemetery at Ranville, which is close to Pegasus Bridge, surrounded by fallen airborne forces personnel.
For me nothing encapsulates the futility of war in the way that these few poems do.
‘Lest we forget, lest we forget.’
Reflections on a photograph – dated 1917
The face it stares across the years
the face that lights our greatest fears
so long ago a picture made,
so long ago a youth betrayed.
He stands there proud, near manhood he,
so young, so strong, what will he be
in years to come, a king, a knave?
’twas not to be, his life he gave.
If we should look on those years past
His vigour, strength was not to last
in time of war death does not care
what promise shewn, what hope they wear.
Stranger look upon that face,
Stranger think, from thy safe place
they trusting went off to a war,
in hope that war would be no more.
They did not know, they could not see
that they were pawns, no strategy
is worth the price our young men pay,
it was true then, it’s true today.
Our leaders think they have a right
to muddle through, but they don’t fight
the flower of youth who want to live
in peace, in love, their lives they give.
They left behind their many dreams,
so many hopes, but now it seems
that all they met was death and pain,
a field, a trench, that endless rain.
I wish that I could happier be
they gave their lives for you and me,
but at the end – I must confess;
I wished they’d loved their Country less.
Gillygangle
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae
An Irish Airman forsees his death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of
breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
William Butler Yeats
A Dead Statesman
I could not dig; I dared not rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?
Rudyard Kipling
Gillygangle 2026
