Francis Ledwidge
To walk amidst the
evening chill
Ledwidge on my mind
Writing verse between
the shells
Battle
lines opined
The poison haze
blights the dawn
Voices trenched and
cowering
Far removed from the weaving Boyne
And youthful passions
flowering
Thoughts of home and
grassy lanes
Delights the pen to
write
The horrors of the
wailing guns
Confirms the deathly
rite
Of noble youth, the
richest soil
To nurture old men’s
wisdom
The harvest of the
slaughter fields
The Judas kiss upon
them
McDonagh bled, your
friend in verse
But rhymes of
different hue
Cleared the fog of
braided men
And made you dream
anew
Until at Ypres,
the ending hour
All blackbirds ceased
to sing
Your name across the
barren meadows
Your soul upon the
wing
No summer mirth upon
the plain
Nor seasoned fare to
cheer
The banquet in its
winter gloom
But your wine bereft
of fear
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