Brief, brave lives taken too young
bodies cast into mass graves
bodies beyond recognition
from the bullets, bayonets and mortar.
Poppies flourished from dead men’s blood.
Brief, brave lives immortalised
names cast into iron plates
names carved into polished sandstone
heaved from the land they called home.
Poppies, paper, fragile as life
remind us of
their sacrifice.
we drank stout
sombre colour of our suits
and heavy like the occasion
her fingers tapped the time-worn bar
– same wood as the coffin –
a subconscious morse code
trying to reach Elysium
an intimate farewell
sealed with frail teardrop
kisses.
Boots sinking
we stood vigil
as our paper swans
glided across the lake
life
unravelling
with forms limp
we retreat
their final descents haunting.
Paul Writes Poems 