Moonchild
I held him dying in my arms
As he whispered hoarsely
‘Don’t let them forget;
Remember me
And show them how wrong
That right can be.’
In a second he was gone
His place removed
From the table.
No one would ever know
His talents or how far
His influence could have gone.
Perhaps as a physician
He would have healed thousands.
As an agrarian wizard
He might have spared Biafra
Those swollen stomachs.
He could have found the True God,
But like billions before him
He was sacrificed
By the manipulators of destiny:
The Apache chiefs on the hill,
Braves dying.
Generals in the command post,
Platoons slaughtered.
The Judas goat
And always the 300 Spartans,
The Light Brigade and Pickett’s Charge.
The shield, to be protector,
Or the death slab,
And more await
Packed in the pens of town and city
Like so much cattle
Awaiting the word of the manipulator
Clothed in the worn-out
Hole-ridden mantle of freedom
And another handshake
And another tear-stained kiss
And another ‘We’re proud of you boy.’
And another ‘You’re doing a fine job.
And another medal.
And another flag
And another and another and another ...
It's a tricky place,
the morning of each race,
steady and cold in its haste.
The working career seeking years
were so full of hurried rushing fears
barely found time amidst the shouts and cheers.
These latter years are so welcomed
with hurry and worry making entry seldom,
longer, slower, methodical escaping that bedlam,
The mornings arrive with greeted anticipation
and aches and pains of age lessen the hesitation
to rise to sun, sky and clouds with focused meditation.
A cup of coffee, a piece of toast,
a chair positioned at my command post,
while in shadows walks reflections of your ghost.
I am pleased to take in the morning masterpiece
from time once constrained, now freed at peace
and in this solitude of aged years, I am released.
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