Sunset at Tyne Cot

I went on a mind-blowing tour of The Somme in July 2006 during which we visited the largest war cemetery, Tyne Cot. This was written not long after.

They gape into the brilliant, blood-red blaze on high. 

The ranks of monumental marble sleep and sigh. 

Imagine this peaceful, pastoral portrait years before. 
A menagerie of blood. Sweat. Vomit. Tears. Guts. Gore. 

A ballad of bombs, bangs and blasts in their ears rung, 
Destroying the tinkle of church bells and the swallow's song. 

Performing like pawns on a pitiless board game. 
Sprightly souls sacrificed for "Blighty's gain." 

Sons, brothers, fathers butchered into wintry white blocks, 
Rigid as an army of eternally nameless rocks. 

Strode, slaughtered, submerged inside a foreign land, 
Their names and bodies forever engulfed in dust and sand. 

So as they stare tearfully at the blood-red orb on high, 
Each lifeless corpse breathes that omni-present cry, 

Why…?

Reviews

[Keve]

This is a marvelously executed sonnet and it reads very nicely. You are a craftsman sir and I commend you. No one writes sonnets anymore and I'm not sure why. It's such a wonderful form and works so well with the subject here.

This one makes me want to read you further. Happy New Year friend.

[Lavon Forkeeps]

You've got a good mind. It looks to me like you can tap into the most naturally dark place there is, but to be optimistic is to succeed. I can hear the destruction, that's a good thing. Thanks for sharing this.