inside the underground corridors of death
Private Harold Williams of the Welsh Guards
disturbed by the sudden silence of the guns
and the warmth of the sun on his tortured face
lies amongst the broken bones and broken hearts
of his comrades and friends
desperately searching for his last and final breath
folded in the rags of his bleeding tunic
blood stained words on an empty cigarette packet
buried in the cold clay of the weeping trench wall
the words became a regimental epitaph:
\'let us die in an angels skin
something pure without sin
that the forgiving earth and stone
can bury us in\'
no funeral here
no flowers or wellwishers
no family black or farewell singing
no words on stone
only the emptiness of a single bell ringing