Cenotaph
© Bernard Briggs November 2009
As heads bow in ritual blindness,
I walk the fields of battle
crushing blades beneath my feet.
My heart is artillery against old enemies;
each tear, a salute for young brows
that the future left behind.
The terrible bones of lost children.
Time has painted life over death
on this dark grieving canvas.
Only colours remain at war.
I cannot name all of the spirits
left haunting this place.
So I name just one, out loud
and dream an embrace.
I know he is not here,
amongst the spilled blood.
Memories choked with mud.
But beneath this freedom of skies
I am suddenly full of him; standing for him
carrying his soul home at last.
I have become
his cenotaph.
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