| |
|
Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.
(The Soldiers at Lauro)
One of our greatest writers on war has gone. One of our best comedians.
One of our funniest poets, and also one of our most serious.
A wonderful trumpet player.
A fighter for the causes, such as vegetarianism and mental health, which he believed in.
I'll miss you, Spike...  |
|
|
