To the Poets of the First War, An Epitaph

[for Rupert Brooke]

they wanted to win so much
the Golden Fleece for their generation
the trellised rose and more

for rhe fair lady and in verse
the mystical intonations of
the waved shores lapping.

for this they gathered all their wit,
good cheer, the fables of the years
and marshaled all their soul

fit to a singular radiance

and trained themselves so secretly
from valorous study shelf to shelf to meet
life with their version of

the chivalric codes.
then lost, lost, all lost
to the call of a dubious war

a generation lost and Poetry
lies dying in a trench the blood flow unstoppable
and even now bears the wounds

not yet, the scars, of the
hemorrhaging rose of their hearts

the letter left unsaid.

and the sweet heart moon,
lacking the old compliments
is blanched

and over their silent tombs

cannot depart.

mary angela douglas 17 november 2017