Rik George writes

Remembrance Twenty-Five
 

I tell myself to let it pass,

The dead are dead; they do not hear

The discourse we the living share

Standing on the edge of the abyss.

They’ve had their time and now are done

With the chatter of living things.

Perhaps somewhere an angel sings

A hymn of praise for an unseen sun

Thus stopping their ears with melodies

Beyond my ken. Perhaps the dead

Hear nothing under the rain-soaked sod

And nothing in the stormy breeze.

Talk’s for living people.  We speak

To hide our fears, hoping our words,

Which we chatter like fledgling birds,

Obscure the silence of dead folk.

 

The Czechoslovakian Military Cemetery, Brookwood, Woking, Surrey UK