Written by: Brian Strand

In memorium *

He put his rifle safe,
pulled up the blanket
against the cold.The Spring
rain dripped in rivulets
down his trench wall.

The blossoms of the hops
would be just flowering
back home. He dreamed on
of the girl he met on his 
last leave. In this

hell on earth, to dream
was to live, for a few
moments; to escape the
monotony of this endless
unreality. The face of

his mother, filled this dream,
Harriet was crying, whispering 
her love; hopelessness had
permeated his last letter. He
awoke, suddenly with a start,

It was time; the big push
was on. The ‘final battle’
the officer had said. Perhaps
I will be on furlough for harvest, 
he thought, smiling inwardly,

day-dreaming for a second
or two, he joined the line.
‘Into your hands O lord’ the
Padre’s murmured benediction
the last words, he heard.

*Albert Strand 1890-1918