Stiff stalked sentries in Autumn sunlight,
silently at attention before the stone,
stand dumb before the crowd.
Piped bugle notes
stir the mute moments
and the silence
ends.
But
not all
ends,
not all
are attentive
to solemn history;
and
violent scars surface
from bloodied soil
again.
We who sleep
on pillowed beds
contemplate, for a moment,
on those whose restless sleep
wrestles with the fear of waste.
1 comment:
Good one, mate. Poignant and appropriate.
Post a Comment