TO A WW1 GENERAL
Too many medals gleaming;
in each a reluctant reflection of the nameless
that died
shredded,
cold,
alone;
out there somewhere beyond the claret and quail.
Cheerful ribbons and earnest metal forming
a stairway of the ordinary dead, high to
an outline of awful, borrowed fame.
Fame which in quiet, alone moments,
is empty; gray and formless.