On 4th November 1918 the poet Wilfred Owen was killed during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal, exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice which ended the First World War, and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death.We studied his poetry and that of other war poets at school and his work, and tragic story, had a profound impact on my poetry and my view of war. This is my tribute to him, reflecting his time recuperating from PTSD.
Wilfred
One day, whilst musing on the cost of war
my mind fell back a full one hundred years
and saw, behind a dark, oak panelled door
a man with shattered mind still burning clear.
Can he not see, in some strange haunted dream
this future ghost with sad, lamenting eyes
that pleads for him to stay, a silent scream,
but knows that he will never earn his prize?
Yet he refused to yield, he ventured back
where hell fire rained and broken bodies sprawled.
This man, with fortitude that I would lack
stood up when King and blessèd Country called.
And though his poems plead, his words implore
Like blinkered sheep we still march on to war
Tim Fellows November 2018
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