At the Beaumont Hamel Memorial France

The boy’s letter hangs straight on the pale wall,
‘Don’t cry Mary, this way we won’t starve
I promise I’ll be home for Christmas.’
His penmanship is upright and precise.
Steady hands that Somme morning pulling
On bright blue puttees; fingering
His caribou insignia and pleased
That he does not stink of fish.

He wants to be gone over the top
With the other eight-hundred Newfies–
Farmers and fishermen–
Dead men who stepped out
Heads bent; chins tucked in
Against the fierce snow of battle.