Tyne Cot Cemetery ©
Bruce Clark Dick
I stand and stare, at rows and rows,
of all the names, and some of those,
Who have no name, but known to God,
their earth-stained bones beneath the sod.
Men in their twenties, and boys in their teens,
Who should have played on village greens,
At rugby and cricket, and girls to kiss,
The dances and weddings they're all going to miss.
For mothers and sweethearts and all the young wives,
This burden they'll carry the rest of their lives.
They'll not hear your mourning, or answer your call,
No sound, not a whisper, nothing at all.