Now, over the top they go,
alone and nameless,
their downward flight
where rock drops sheer.
The bouquets tied to railings
die more slowly
as the empty husk of peace
sounds a song of grief to end
all love.
It’s a town that looks for dignity
in war.
Showcased like the plesiosaur
among ammonite graveyards
cool behind glass,
he’s an alumnus,
a boyish bust to mother,
a shock to the syllabus.
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
has a blue plaque
on a tired white hotel
where poems were born in blood.
Did his rehab ward, his waiting room
have a view –
of tides relentless as shells,
their softness settling
only to lull?
In his silence
did seagulls slice deep through breath?
What called him beyond promontory,
bay and horizon,
like a lobster caged and craving
seas of fire?
And was all this, so postcard bright, so light and blue,
stolen without trace,
or did it guide him
home?
