Soldiers stand like a field of corn,
the over-ripe unharvested,
they did not fall. November winds
ripple the greying gathered ranks.
Marching orders have been given
and faces face the deathward path.
The years have not stood still for them
nor us. How harsh the passing time,
the parting of the ways. Today
I will remember, not the wars
which tore my history books apart
and left these empty people here,
my compassion is with the living.
Poppy-wreaths cannot begin
to move you in your brokenness,
nor I in mine. This is the day