Cold blustery November again.
Trembling in the gale
that seems a constant companion here,
I inspect the faces that surround me.
Lost souls, most of them,
seeking some ethereal contact
with a soldier or other fighting man.
Banners and flags whip and crack
like the rattle of machine guns
or the menacing tread of tanks.
The boom of nearby surf
echoes bombardment.
We shuffle on unsteady feet
as the bugle blows Last Post
and wipe away a wind-forced tear.
We listen unheeding as priests
offer words of comfort.
We who were there shudder
and remember prayers
that were not answered.