War Poems

Ritual
Elegy
Vision
Survivor
The Song of Batty Boswell

A bugle plays,
A flower grows,
The dead are laid
In measured rows.

A wreath of notes
Winds round our heads,
Bowed in remembrance
Of the dead.

The air is bright
With blooms of sound,
The dead are cold
Beneath the ground.

A final echo
Chills the skies,
A petal falls,
The dead arise.