There are lessons that we have heard taught time and time again, which tell us that war is insane. For reasons I won't go in to, the lesson does not seem to stick very well.

In 1915, the English poet Rupert Brooke died (not of violence but of blood poisoning) while in service with the British Navy en route to Gallipoli.

His acknowledgement of the dead of war is appropriate to remember as we walk away from our own, and those we killed, in a war widely promoted as just:

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THE DEAD

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

Rupert Brooke

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