The empire called for more men, and they came.

Shipped from sub-continent

to western front,

Gallipoli, Mesopotamia, East Africa, 

largest volunteer army in the world.

 

They weren’t ready for the cold;

couldn’t understand new officers

when theirs were slain. 

Some wounded, shipped to England,

died and were buried

in a corner of a foreign wood

with Muslim honours, near a mosque,

among the sentry birch and pines.

 

Undisturbed for decades, then came vandals.

The soldiers were exhumed;

monument, arches, minarets,

domed gateway remain.

 

Remember them, and their memorial,

when leaves cling on in November wind,

magpies and crows call through the trees.

It’s time to dig again

the mossy turf and sandy soil;

to bury war, unearth peace.