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

from home,

taken from the womb of night

bought initially into the bitter

light of day.

Shadows cast by flare

and flag,

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

remote, deliberate


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

criss-crossing the

bare earth.

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

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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