Where is the rain?
On such a day as this, the skies should weep
For those who fell, their futures cast aside;
Who left their wives to widowhood, bequeathed
their sons
No legacy but pride.

What of the trees, whose faded leaves now dance,
So fickle in the unexpected sun?
Where only yesterday they clung with
sullen apathy,
Their summer glory done.

Here is inconstancy – do we remember those
Who died in burning sands or jungle heat
With that same sorrow we accord
To Flanders Field or Passchendaele?
Somehow November’s climate seems to meet
More closely, memory of their travail.

And what does weather matter now,
To those whose lives were lost or torn apart?
Late autumn sun may warm my shoulders
where I stand:
The bitter thoughts of war have chilled my heart.

Originally from her divine shadow on November 11, 2007, 2:57am