A Monthly Publication

By Meryl Hirons

The congregation leaves the church,

Shuffles in line along the gravelled path

To reach the Cenotaph

Which honours the War Dead

Of this small English village.

No one looks at any other,

Alone in their thoughts

Of loved ones lost and gone

In noise, pain, terror

On the battlefield;

Or, instead, rescued from that Hell

To dwell for ever in disabled bodies

While endless scenes of horror

Play constant havoc in their minds,

With every sudden sound

Of peacetime life a threat.

These churchyard mourners, then,

Solemn, heads bowed, faces

Pale with renewed grief,

Stand in the frosty Silence

While two minutes pass, 

The cawing of rooks in nearby naked trees

The only interruption to their thoughts ...

...the while, in battlefields abroad

Fresh tragedies are made, 

The lives of young soldiers lost,

And scores of innocents maimed,

Their homes destroyed,

Their families made refugees.

No war can be the one to end all others:

How can we hope to foster peace?

How sample concord

While still fingering the trigger?

(With thoughts, prayers and kind regards.)