Remembering The Dead

Wilfred Owen's poem Dulce Et Decourm Est stuck with me from the moment I read it. Although it has it's technicalities it does not distract from the connect ability Wilfred undoubtedly wanted to achieve and the picture he wanted to paint in words.

Wondering what to type at lunchtime, I thought I would doodle on the image (or some of them) that Wilfred give me from reading Dulce Et Decourm, although I haven't re-read it prior to the doodle.

Not Today

Shells miss
No matter, canisters fall, heavy boots thudding in the mud
While men scream “Gas! Gas!”, scrabble madly before they drown.
Through a bowl he comes; sick and twisted, sheep’s eyes on the devil’s dinner plate
Writhing like a banshee until still
He stops in the bitter broth becomes a man of stone.
In the mustard wake, they watch; patients in death’s surgery,
Eyes drawn, held prisoner in the contortion; faces of home,
Friendship and sons yet to be born roll wave after wave.
Safe now, the peak barks, muscles still rigid they heave indignity
Upon indignity to stare back and gargle
While they march in silence behind the battered cart
In the anthem of a doomed youth.