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At nineteen you were still a child
hopping off to an aggrandised war
filled with romantic and exuberant air

At nineteen you travelled over the channel
to Mons, by the Belgian border marching
there receiving the horrors of humiliated retreat

At nineteen you went missing
first in Dublin taking leave without permission
now in France and sought for desertion

At nineteen you were a fugitive
hiding from town to town
filled with fear and personal loathing
without destination, without future

At nineteen you were confronted
by a baron's gamekeeper
whisked from barn to court marshall

At nineteen you met the iron will
of a military court in face of disaster
you were the first deserter to be convicted

As far as publicly convenient, within two days
without showing the world we shoot our own
At nineteen you marched out, first light of dawn

And in the half light of a new day
in an unmarked grave by the road
At nineteen ceremoniously executed and hastily buried

A queue of poplar trees with arms outstretched
lifted plaintive prayers to the war torn sky
At nineteen hope flew as far as the eye can see

Shortly before dawn, escorted by armed guards
tied to a post, blindfolded, white cloth to the heart
At nineteen your regiment paraded through gun smoke

An exemplary deterrent to all West Kents
rifles cracked from shaking arms
At nineteen you were shot at dawn