(The Lovers – Rider Waite Tarot)

One of my favourite poets has got to be Wilfred Owen.

A World War One army officer and poet, Owen felt disillusioned with the war he was fighting.

What resonates with me the most about him – apart from the poetry he wrote-  is his relationship with fellow poet and WWI soldier, Siegfried Sassoon.

The deep bond that the two shared after meeting at hospital near Edinburgh, is evident in the letters that they exchanged.

At a time when War was ravaging the world, as it continues to do today –  love, friendship and support is really all we have as redemption.

Today, send some love for those who have fought, died, survived and supported in conflicts across our Earth.

For the innocents who have watched and have perished, who continue to watch and who continue to perish.

I’ll leave you with a poem by Owen, depicting the true and very real horrors of war.

There is deep sadness in today and all days that we continue to die in conflict.

This remembrance day, remember to love.

Much love (of course) Txx

Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.