Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men’s are, dead.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.
Shall they return to beatings of great bells
In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.
Wilfred Owen, "The Send-Off"
Continuing last year's decision to not use 'In Flanders Fields', but a more railway themed poet from the Great War, I've settled for Wilfred Owen's 'The Send-Off', which described the, well, send-off of young men to the front by train.
For many, this year was, and still is, a dreadful one. And it doesn't exclude us and the project. Sadly, due to many things, we were not able to keep up the momentum we praised in our last post, and got bogged down again. Much like the Western Front back then.
However, we are not willing to give up this easy, and we hope to continue our work as soon as possible.
Stay safe and healthy
-We will remember them