Wootton Bassett Poem by John Sydney Cartwright

Who were these men?
What are they to me,
These eight young men who died
In a land across the sea?

They went to fight the Taliban,
To serve their gracious noble Queen
But what's it for? What does it mean,
When some are dead at just eighteen?

No more the blazing sun for them
No more the sand or flies
Innoculations or mosquito nets;
The cool relief comes as he dies.

No more the sound of bang and rattle
No more fear of shrapnel's clatter,
Roadside bombs or I.E.D.s,
Snipers, or their Pashto chatter

Knowing not the greater picture,
Unconscious of the whirlwind's reaping:
Imperialism's latest misadventure
Takes its harvest as they're sleeping

They were someone's sons and dads,
Boyfriend or a cheeky brother,
Grandson, uncle, one of the lads,
Always someone's one or other

These eight men, who were they to me?
Someone else's own Prince Harry,
Someone other's Daniel Radcliffe,
Perhaps waiting, some day to marry

All were precious, strong, beloved,
Eight noble princes from a different clan
Taken each from his own people,
Now all grimly equal, to a man.