He's marching out of step, our poet.
You can see it in their eyes and hear
it in their sighs. They whisper 'snob'.
But he's always gone beyond the norm,
hiding thoughts, hiding loves, faith denied.

Duty to art, duty to country,
duty to comrades bind and confound.
Few try to understand poetic
powers. Few seek the truth inside the man.

He set out to face the slaughter, knowing
death's colours, sounds and smells, writing of waste.
His end a poet's wreath matted red. His last
trench a French canal. His pen impatient