A bright, crisp day. Went for a drive for a bit and ended up down by the river in the golden light from the low, late afternoon sun. Looking back up the lane it struck me as an appealing composition redolent of:

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Which seemed a fitting image for a day largely spent reading Tolkien, Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Robert Graves and Bernard Adams. Last night I watched a BBC documentary about the various writers who found themselves scattered around the Somme battlefield and found themselves and their writing utterly changed by it. It was one of the best offerings in the Beeb's coverage of the centenary, very moving and it sent me off to revisit their poetry and prose, at least the ones I already have on my shelf, it also made me add Isaac Rosenberg, David Jones, William Hodgson and a few others to my "acquisitions" list. In Tolkien's case I had to re read his chapter on crossing the Dead Marshes, even more disturbing imagery when one realises that he is essentially describing what he saw in the flooded landscape of the dead around Theipval after four months of the Somme offensive. One of the most affecting I've read today has been by Hodgson, published two days before he was killed:

Before Action
by Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson, MC, 29th June, 1916

By all the glories of the day
And the cool evening's benison
By that last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of all man's hopes and fears
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this; -
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.