He was anyone, everyone's son.
A splendid, strapping lad
with a smile to make an angel blush;
So innocent, shy and wide.
There was goodness in his every gesture,
and in every stride of his bold step;
As he marched off with his regiment
to a war not of his making, but he went.
Without complaint he went, believing
it was his duty to fight beside his mates;
Even if the odds were great, as they died
in their thousands like slaughtered sheep.
Sheltered by the Somme in an unmarked grave
where memory saves forgetfulness, that, and his
final letter are all that remain of anyone, everyone's son.