The Unknown Soldier
for Copland Smith
Something dramatic ought to happen here
at this fallen envelope of stone
perimeter’d with weary poppy feet -
The Angel of Mons perhaps appear.
Or the man himself, promoted pawn
of the sacrifice, dying to be the decent-
minded youth who’d murder a beer
and, shot of this musty chequered zone,
enjoy an hour of footie in the street.
And so we shuffle blankly out
spent as cartridges. Big Ben bound
we steel ourselves for one more bout
of seeing London in the round -
its peace campaign on the roundabout.
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