by | Aug 30, 2007 | Poetry | 0 comments

Summer’s end and autumn’s start, I walk alone by choice,
Through rank upon rank of headstones, hoping to hear a voice.
Sanctuary Wood they named it, though God alone knows why.
It was anything but a sanctuary for the men that here did die.
Yet, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, created a
In the way of an English garden, for all of the world to see.
Beautiful and remarkable, a fitting bed of rest
For several hundred souls who loved their Dear old blighty best.

The warm afternoon is waning. A cock pheasant chides in the wood.
Still no voice has spoken. Foolish to imagine it would.
And, children on the graveyard wall, playing merrily,
Seem really disrespectful, and disturb my reverie.
When suddenly, I’m enfolded by the warmth of friendly men,
Whose smiles at the children’s laughter, bid me to think again.
The horror of war passed long ago and now, in this special place,
Young ones playing happily are the healing hand of grace.


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