The days wear on and I think of you.
Spring and summer and autumn's hue.
In the chill of winter when nights are long,
I remember you when I hear 'our song'.
When the children look with enquiring eyes,
I invent a story, spin little white lies.
People nod and smile in that quaint, little way,
embarrassed to find the right words to say.
This time of year it's sharper than most
and I struggle inside to lay the ghost
of a love so enduring it's hard to breathe,
as I stand at the cenotaph and lay the wreath.
And as the salt tears fall and the last post is played
and a nations youth to rest have been laid,
we who are left must silence the guns
that took our husbands, our fathers and sons.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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