The Digger's Children
I paced between the old and new
along the rows where gray stones grow,
so careful not to tread upon
the freshly filled and seeded few.
Soft shadows slid across the lawn
where long ago a scythe would mow;
its ringing echoed down the row
like angels voices singing now,
a prayer of faith, a sacred vow.
While young men die in foreign fields,
when once they played with cardboard shields -
now dig, like I, an endless trench,
a hole where mud and blood would drench;
the devil's own unholy stench.
Today my labors dig like they,
yet here, a grave where mourners pray
as chapel bells ring hymns of peace;
a futile wish for hate to cease.
The soil is scarred across the world,
with trench and grave, more holes to fill,
while there, on high, a tempest swirled.
It all will heal...it is his will.
Copyright © Craig Cornish | Year Posted 2020
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