The sights they will not see;
those who inhabit foreign fields,
who fell with friends
into the gory mud of war.
Dew on roses,
the sun rising
unheralded by whistle,
bomb or bullet’s whine.
Tears; adorning sepia images,
silent captured moments
at attention
guarding memories.
The sights they will not see;
generations in salute
mourning
the changed world
as whistles blow in unison
and flags carpet
the rain sodden muster,
hoped-for dreams
at half mast.
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