The Valour

November 10, 2015

The Calendar date, a gate to past
With weary grey eyes, time flies its mast
The small red and black, a crack returns
And old shaking bones, the moan that burns

Not just once a year, a tear is hot
When memories ascend, the friend near not
It pains them to dwell, a swell of sound
To stop and recall, it’s all unbound

The wrinkles and crease, release that sails
To flags and loud guns, it runs in wails
The thick mud entrench, the drench is cold
No happy face boy, no joy just mould

A love faraway, a day, hold on
When bullets will rest, sore chest be gone
And warmth in embrace, a face so sweet
Beloved will bond, respond, a feat

But peace is attained, and feigned at night
When war heroes sleep, so deep in fright
The echoed nightmare, lays bare the scene
And trumpet blast cheers, with tears between

Cannot now remove, or prove the worth
When dead ones lie still, a chill in earth
But still they will come, with chum to say
That they fought so brave, to save our way

And so we take time, with chime and horn
To honour and bow, right now and mourn
The fierceness in power, their Valour we mark
To never forget or let die their spark.

Paula Antonello Moore, Poetry. Copyright: Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Photo: Second World War Veterans from CTV News.ca
Photo Credit: AP / Vincent Jannink

Post navigation

← The Carpenter Who Brought Candy

Cauchemar Insondable →