The wreaths
The wreaths
When you held my hand
and we walked
past the wreaths,
I didn't dare to look
nor understand
until I was old enough
to run through fields of poppies
and celebrate the freedom
in the sun
without the loaded planes
the fears and silence
of all the young men
of whom so few returned
Year after year
the stories were told
gram, you, my uncles,
the teacher at school,
and later
Aunty Cathy, Ron,
and all those names
on endless rows of graves
that shouted pain and past
through eternal sky
The failure of man
to live in peace.
And now so many voices have gone silent
the uniforms untouched
the medals lost or sold
like they have no meaning anymore
my soul sees
your belongings in your drawer
which are all gone
and so are you.
I am not shy anymore,
none keeps my hand safe,
nor my heart.
My eyes reach the horizon
and I still don't understand
the silent cries of all the people
all those who lie there and all those
who stayed at their homes and wept
But one by one
I see those wreaths
the poppies oh so red
that surround the messages
and sometimes just a name
I hear the trumpet
and the weight of the short silence
and greet those
who keep our lives
in their buried hands.
©Syl 2018
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