Simon Armitage wrote The Bed in 2020 to commemorate the centenary of the burial of the Unknown Warrior, a profoundly symbolic event marking 100 years since an unidentified British soldier was interred in Westminster Abbey to represent all those who lost their lives in the First World War without a known grave. This event, which took place on Armistice Day in 1920, has since become a focal point for national remembrance, honoring the many nameless soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice.
As Poet Laureate, appointed in 2019, Armitage was well-suited to create a work that not only commemorated this historic anniversary but also spoke to the enduring impact of war on individuals and families. The Bed poignantly explores themes of loss, memory, and absence through the simple, everyday image of a bed—an evocative symbol of the lives disrupted and left empty by conflict.
Born and raised in the village of Marsden in West Yorkshire, Armitage has consistently drawn inspiration from the landscapes, communities, and dialects of his home county. His work often reflects the rugged beauty, resilience, and working-class roots of Yorkshire.
The Bed
Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.
And because you are broken and sleeping rough
in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross
for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;
to hack through the knotted dark of the next world,
yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate
looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds.
That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,
fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.
And because frost plucks at the threads
of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain,
bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed
and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,
for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,
and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:
an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.
The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble
buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket
a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness
files past, through until morning, its head bowed.
Molten bullets embroider incised words.
Among drowsing poets and dozing saints
the tall white candles are vigilant sentries
presenting arms with stiff yellow flames;
so nobody treads on the counterpane,
but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers
will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.
All this for a soul
without name or rank or age or home, because you
are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.
