The Archibald Baxter Memorial Trust 

Please listen; first you need to understand
that here the dead are laid in shallow graves –
precise, immaculate of course – names etched
in tiny trenches clean as crosshairs – light
as whistling in a field behind the lines –
a little deeper than the brass they lie
Please listen; every year, these dead will march
again inside this hall, for we who live
will stage a soft parade; the name
of every man who died will step into
the air, a list straightforward as the alphabet –
two hundred names and more will move aside
the silence, pause a moment, then make way,
aloof alike to honour or indifferent stares