That war is horrible?
People, young men traditionally,
get marched off to die,
in ugly futility
or destined glory
on a naval expedition to Constantinople
or Wilfrid Owen
slogging across years of broken bodies.
Parade them out sadly,
the ghosts of the Great War
who have not grown old
and would be dead anyway.
Shall we remember the real forgotten
who left us no poetry
who fell in the morass they did not make
so very young, saluting,
going one more time over the top
to face the carnage, the guns, the bombs,
far from their homes,
their email, their iPods,
in far Iraq, Afghanistan,
the ghastly crop of this year's dead?