The flagstones are worn where she paces alone
in darkness, at daybreak, her heart held by frost.
She faces the truth that her son won’t come home.
He fought for his faith and his life, and he lost.

‘I’ll manage,’ she says as she walks up and down
and rocks in her arms the small space of her boy.
But nothing is left of him there in that town
just memories no-one can change or destroy.

Her sister is screaming far off where the sun
beats down on the desert. Her husband is dead.
No comfort in bullets, the bomb and the gun.
All conflict means misery, blood to be shed.

There’s wastage worldwide of courageous young men
and lost generations can never return.
Their fatherless children are crying again.
Some women who wave are sad women who learn.