A poem in memory of Harry Patch, the last surviving soldier to have fought in World War One by former Royal Marine Commando, Michael Browne. Last of the breed who fought their fight 'Cross Flander's fields so long ago, Where now the scarlet poppy blows, And memories, in place of sight, Fill the whole landscape with the mud, The agonies, the outpoured blood, The grim despondency of doom From whence the bonny poppy blooms In our today - for which they died, They, they, our saviours crucified Upon the gibbet of a war They said could rise again no more! A hundred years of borrowed time 'Ere ever Harry would opine On that dread episode, and tell The horrors of a living hell- When brave young men grew deathly pale In grim, horrendous Passchendaele! He never ever could forget The poignant sorrow - the regret When his dear soldier friend and brother, Died in his arms and whispered - "Mother"! For him there was no glory won When the last bugle note was done, And what remained of all his mates Were names carved in the Menen gate! And underneath the sod of Ypers, A generation of young sleepers! No bitter vengeance bade him go Determined he would kill the foe! He not a single foe did claim But sighted low with every aim! The enemy were just as others - They too had sweethearts, children, mothers! Their flesh and blood was just the same, If wounded they would suffer pain- Compassion in his spirit ran, The enemy was fellow man! 'Til finally the thought of war Was something he did most abhor! And now Harry has passed away, And we face quite a different day- I wonder - would he understand How we can have Afghanistan? (Michael Browne) (Harry Patch last of the WW1 "Tommys" died, aged 111 in Wells, Somerset, July 2009)