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.