I hadn’t come across this poem before from former for­eign corrrespond­ent James Fenton. [HT: 3quarksdaily] It’s a trib­ute to dead journ­al­ists, but it doesn’t work for me. It reads like a cheap Auden pas­tiche. Per­haps there’s an appro­pri­ate irony there? I prefer Harry Evans’ vale­dic­tion for David Blundy. Still, you might have a dif­fer­ent view.

Memorial

We spoke, we chose to speak of war and strife –
A task a fine ambi­tion sought –
And some might say, who shared our work, our life:
That praise was dearly bought.

Drivers, inter­pret­ers, these were our friends.
These we loved. These we were trus­ted by.
The shocked hand wipes the blood across the lens.
The lens looked to the sky.

Most died by mis­chance. Some seemed honour-bound
To take the lonely, peer­less track
Con­ceiv­ing danger as a testing-ground
To which they must go back

Till the dry tongue fell silent and they crossed
Bey­ond the realm of time and fear.
Death waved them through the check­point. They were lost.
All have their story here.