By Sati West
It was a day in November
I remember it well; the stirring of life
A new day.
The uniform had never been worn
an abundance of crease and wear. Crisp
The boots were polished to perfection
alighted in a sea of faded wear
So they found themselves far
taken from the womb of night
bought initially into the bitter
light of day.
Shadows cast by flare
swaying in the still night air
in the valley of death.
Now shadows dance, half-glimpses
among the tall trees of autumn gold; just
shadows, to linger;
to taint my thoughts and senses
Shadows, to remain in memories.
Struggling upon the field of battle
of a past, a present and a future,
and I bend
to watch them fade beneath shaking hands.
A recognition, an acceptance
Of a day when
the blood of a thousand men
ran deep, mingled with tear-tracks
Lost to some corner of a foreign field
where the stirring
of life was long-since felt
now the stirring of memories afresh.
In sight of the shadows; and
they beckon, voices calling;
and I come
A quiet perfection
A world where shadows skim
The veil of light
amid the shades of creation.
Copyright 2003, Sati West, All Rights Reserved
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