A private return from war
by Antony Burrows
In the stillness of bonfire breezes
Dutifully winding lanes lined,
And avenues ranked ,over tidy doorsteps,
Down cobblestone washed streets,
Through willow weeping gates and ginnels…I pass by.
I pass by, in laurel, a green boned yeoman, who drilled
And scattered once, in dominion warrior lands, sown
Latent seed ,reaped proud stalks in evening light,
Then cut down in raw war dark dawn…I wave bye.
I wave bye, reflective in autumn pastels, paused,
Hand delivered opened to find, tears captured as fallen leaves,
And destined to be, shuttered off in sepia memories,
Parlour drawn, mantle resting piece…I look by.
I look by, finding lovers, brothers, mothers,
Received with stoic black poppy pride,
Prayed silence, a crown of Portland stone,
Stories of valour, pals together, alone…I stand by.
I stand by, and you may say, did I not know,
As does the oak, young sapling ?,
Felled in the warmth of new life,
No acorns rising, nestling under moss,
Only the cold pastures of death and loss,
And I ask why ?.