Since the whistle blew

The phantoms of history,

the flowers of youth,

a slice in time

caught us unaware

and drew dew

from fallow eyes

as they walked these streets

and haunted

in loud silence.

Memories fade

(Photo by KW,  poppy made by Pam Burgess)

Memories fade

as years march on:

combatants,

their longevity challenged,

fall in a new line of duty -

the line of time.

Their breeching of trenches,

their enforced bravery

and long carried wounds

forgotten in the grief

of their new graves.

On this day,

when poppies are king,

when Autumn leaves

tinge red with gold,

tears will fall

from thankful souls.

On this day

fears will grow

for the newly marching

who forget their history

or remember it too much

and stride toward some lighthouse,

blind to the rocks beneath.

Ceramic poppy

Ceramic poppy arrived Jan 2015

From hundreds of thousands of comrades,

once proudly at attention,

dispersed as demobbed troops

it is solitary now.

A seed of remembrance

planted in new soil

like fallen troops

in foreign fields.

Petals, red as lips,

that will neither speak

nor bless another with a kiss.

Its steel stem

leafless,

like so many family trees.

Petals, red as fresh blood,

gather the raindrops

like machinegun fire

and the fallen

splash.

Though I have no memories,

I will remember.

Though I have no ties,

I will connect.

Though I have no grief,

I will sorrow.

 

The tower cries

The Tower cries
a moat of tears
for lives completed
in their incompleteness.
We circle round
in a dance
of remembrance
our unremembered lives
grieving.

           

A ‘last post’

assaults the sky

sounding its portal

to other times and lives,

mingling tears and blood.

Guns salute wars that were

but  echo on in wars that are

and wars that still will come.

In the going down of the sun

and in the morning

we continue them

and the mourning.

And all around on this night

fireworks brand the sky

the battlefield of our senses

scourged with persistence.

Role reversal

shadows of the present

lie lightly on the memorial

reclining shapes

upon the poppies

remembering the bodies

asleep below

the staccato clamour

of camera shutters

stuttering

like machine gun fire

but the only fallen here

are thrown down

by sunlight

For those

We grieve

for those who have not fallen

but stumble on.

For those whose every day

is a sinister day

filled with red,

and void.

For those

who cannot forge

a shining,

for those whose

yesterdays

brand today

with red hot irons.

And for petals

that fall like

grenades

and blossom

in the fracture

of emotion.

We grieve on

for those

and these

falling

still.

Our tears

do  not

offend us.

The naming of the dead

I do not know them,

these whose sweat and blood

congeal on foreign soil.

Their names, as strangers,

assault the local tongue,

falling, misspoken,

if spoken at all.

Friends and enemies,

in mingled paths -

their misfortunate destiny

tangled together by vaguery.

I do not know them,

their names fill no lines

in my address book,

their phone numbers

share no history with me.

But I will name them;

every mother’s son,

every missing father,

every soul

upon its new adventure.

I will name them,

proclaim them,

claim back their pride

for all are hero,

foreign soil or no,

who jeopardise themselves

for me.

Remembrance

 

We forget

we remember

He forgets.

We forget

we remember

He forgets.

We forget

He remembers

we forget.

Thank God
for forgiveness.