This is a poem that the current UK Poet Laureate has published as it is 100 years since the Unknown Warrior was buried.
My Mountain Living Friend sent me this, with comments.
I stood with three comrades in Parliament Street
November her freights of grey fire unloading
No sound from the pale city upon the pale air
Above us the sea-bell eleven unloading.
Down by the bands and the burning memorial
Beats all the brass in a royal array
But at our end we are not so sartorial:
Out of (as usual) the rig of the day.
Starry is wearing a split pusser’s flannel
Rubbed, as he is, by the regular tide;
Oxo the ducks that he ditched in the Channel
In June, 1940 (when he was inside).
Kitty recalls his abandon-ship station,
Running below at the Old Man’s salute
And (with a deck-watch) going down for duration
Wearing his oppo’s pneumonia suit.
Comrades, for you the black captain of carracks
Writes in Whitehall his appalling decisions,
But as was often the case in the Barracks
Several ratings are not at Divisions.
Into the eyes the stiff sea-horses stare,
Over my head sweeps the sun like a swan.
As I stand alone in Parliament Square
A cold bugle calls, and the city moves on.
By Charles Causley
Published in 1957
He was a deeply Christian man affected by both wars; his dad DOW from WW1 and many of his shipmates in WW2 perished.