An empty grave — that’s “cenotaph” in books;
so here we stand by emptiness, and weep
and guns’ salute and words and flags and deep
sad silent prayers we overflow like brooks,

And jets fly overhead: we keep our looks
deep underground some other place where sleep
is cold and bodies shattered silent cheap
and guns sing softer than a lofting rook.

And home we drive and speak of how the old,
old vets are older and the young too young,
and “Flowers of the Forest” was so sad;

and then we warm our bones with whiskey cold.
Is this a noble song that we have sung?
or is our music void: a cenotaph?

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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