A Hundred Years On I stand here and look, at your white tombstone You died near this spot, you were not alone Long rows of crosses stand mute in the sand Row upon row like a mourning band Brief inscription carved upon the cross To your family and friends a capital loss You died way back in nineteen fourteen Buried here in your olive green They said it was the war to end all wars Fought out here on these foreign shores Now red poppies grow in fields around Where a whole generation lie in the ground I hope you died well, and I hope you died clean Or was painfully, slow and obscene Who said words, as the lowered you down To join comrades in this ghostly town Did you have wife or sweetheart waiting for you? With undying love faithful so and true Or are you face in an old photograph? Or just remembered by this epitaph? Copyright © Alex McEwan