Poem: ‘A letter from Francis Ledwidge’ by Matthew Geden

I may be dead, but still I hear
the roads calling, the hills of home
and the restless rivers wondering
where I am. Mahomet has found
a simile for the moon; she hangs
limply, broken like an old palm
branch. Do come and visit; you may
find me on the Western Front, I go
out at night to watch the German
rockets. They have white crests, throw
flame across no-man's land, burst
into green and blue, drop down
in purple rain. I gaze in awe,
the last days of a beautiful world.

• Matthew Geden's most recent collection is The Place Inside (Dedalus). He is director of the Kinsale Writing School