Tell me about the men who didnít die,
discharged unfit for service
to a small address in Wolverhampton.
Tell how shell-shocked eyes could not
take in the wooden gate, the hedge,
the sight of Dolly and the baby, waiting.
Tell me of that man, last seen on a tram
with someone else, the wife who cried
and told her boy his father had died.
Then tell me of the grandson searching,
who found another family, who didnít
choose to tell his Dad. Now tell me,
whereís the monument to all of them?
If you have any comments on this poem, Kathy Gee
would be pleased to hear from you.