On the death of a minor poet in the trenches

In the end it was sudden.

Maybe he willed it,

Given his depressive frame of mind.

Some prophetic – you could say –

Couplets in the diary

Left in the dug-out

As a precautionary measure

And the day before’s entry

To the imminent widow,

Charting, as poets do,

The high shining sun

And larks swooping

In their ordinary way.

A millionth message,

Routinely conveyed,

Interrupted the sewing

And other Sunday tasks,

Resumed after a decent interval.

The ageless truth:

Vanum et amarum est

Pro patria mori.