Poetry

(To the unknown boys killed in
the the First World War)

No more will he look into the
eyes of his Mother,
No more will he see his Brothers
smile,
No more will he feel love.
No more will he fish, and climb
the trees of England
Or marvel at the voice of the
nightingale.

For he is Sixteen and a Man,
He has done is duty by his
Country,
Taken the shrapnel, which
exploded over him
Like a Bright light sent from an
avenging God.

He sees the dark approaching
But he can take it, for he is an
Englishman
No more will he hear the whistle
to advance
No more the frost and Snow
No more the fear of being killed
For I am no More
Remember me Mother