At the Junction on Crucifix
Corner
Out on the Somme, beside a sideroad, between
Albert and Bapaume,
Great War pilgrims pause in silence, where
memories whispers on.
There lies a place called Crucifix Corner,
beneath some ancient trees,
Where stands a cast-iron cross of faith for
every soul that sees.
This wayside crucifix, once common all
through France,
Survived the shell and fire of war — as if by
saintly chance.
Pinned to its weathered arms, Christ’s vision
greets the air,
A figure bowed in agony, a symbol of despair.
His head is turned, his pain profound, his
words once filled the sky:
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” — his final,
pleading cry.
Then softly, “Father, to your hands my spirit
I commend,”
Leaving us with haunting thoughts no reason
can defend.
The cross recalls the sacrifice of soldiers,
side by side,
Whose blood was shed at High Wood, and how so
many died.
Christians against Christians — who could
have foreseen
Brethren killing brethren on that tortured,
blood-stained green?
Just northward lies High Wood — Bois des
Fourcaux its name —
Where 8,000 rest beneath the leaves, no
marker to their fame.
The wise tread lightly through that place,
where silent shadows keep,
And in the hush of Death Valley, their
restless spirits sleep.
The ground is scarred with shell-holes,
trenches, relics of the fight,
Each crater holds its history, each dawn
recalls the night.
Visitors who stand and gaze, beneath the solemn
sky,
Reflect on human folly — and softly ask us
why.
Why did they make the sacrifice, for a war
that was not won?
How did faith endure the roar of gun on gun?
How did dying men find peace, as their final
prayers were said?
How can slaughter yield redemption, or
sanctify the dead?
Let us remember, not to chide, nor judge, nor
to condemn,
But honour what they suffered — and learn
from all of them.
For answers do not rest in words, nor even
what was taught;
They lie within the hearts of those who bore
the fight — and fought.
Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET
(Oct2025)
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