What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? --Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. I never had the privilege of meeting my Great Uncle,he was killed before my father,his nephew was born. He was one of 3 brothers and of all of them who went to war was the one who didn't return. He was the same age my son is now when he died and can only imagine the pain of his mothers loss. The immense pride he is held in by my family is tempered by the sadness over the loss of so many young promising boys and the huge debt we owe them all. Thankyou

Frances Draisey