Hedd Wyn, by Guy Fletcher

Many Welsh soldiers are buried here,
a white stone memorial poignantly states
"Their name liveth for evermore"
to the sound of cows by Artillery Wood Cemetery
on this summer morning when Flanders Fields
seems incapable of such bloodshed
but it was hell a century before
in the brutal days of the First World War.


I read the poem "Rhyfel" to a group
as we stood by Hedd Wyn's grave, Welsh flag fluttering,
and although it was such a long time ago
I felt tears well-up in my eyes.
He won the "Chair" at the Eisteddfod
but it was posthumous, a tragic tale,
and I peer at graves, many with no name
but we have learned nothing and that's our shame.


I stare at the grave of an unknown soldier
and imagine the letters he might have written to his ma
longing to drink ale with friends in his local
and wake with fresh sheets on a sunny morn.
A red rose petal rots on verdant grass
a reminder of the transience of life,
so sad how many young men had to fall,
some graves visited...and some not at all.