A poet’s inky soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact;
Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:
Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged;
And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind; deaf to the hoots.
There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place;
So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt.
If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry,
What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?
Adored by age, revered by youth; for otherwise-unspoken truth.
If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?
Or is it likelier he’d see: arms being sold; cash weaponry?
And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?
Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s cacophony:
And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.