Dead Horses
April 16 2024
A faded photograph
in sepia tones
of an erect young man
who would soon go off to war.
A prairie boy
who had never seen the sea
about to set sail
in the early morning dark.
The sparse moustache
he so proudly nursed
wasn't doing much good;
he still looked too boyish.
A formal photograph
of an earnest young man
in a badly finished uniform
one size too big;
the great uncle
who would never return
from the war to end all war.
My father treasured this.
And tried hard to pass on
his strong feelings that came over him.
Part of a letter also remained;
hand-written
and speaking of death
with an eloquence one wouldn’t expect
of a man so young.
The last one he sent.
I know my father
was deeply affected by this,
the sense of duty
and chilling premonition
that letter contained.
Not to mention the bravery,
especially in our current age
when heroism is scarce
or claimed by imposters.
He clearly saw himself
as the keeper of memory;
after all
who else was left
to honour the self-sacrifice
of a great uncle who died
with no children of his own?
Or was this an older man
questioning his own mortality;
a search for meaning
at the time of life
when death
which had always been hypothetical
has started to seem real?
A thought
that makes more and more sense
the older I get.
War didn’t end, of course,
despite the miserable trenches
and millions dead.
Young men
going off to war
whom no one now remembers.
Unknown soldiers
in unmarked graves
in unconsecrated fields,
their remains mixed
with what's left of dead horses
buried in soil
seeded with blood.
But one great uncle
who died for his country
has yet to be forgotten.
A photo on a mantelpiece.
A father
who rarely showed emotion
with a catch in his voice.
And a son
who only vaguely knows the story
and lost track of the artifacts themselves;
but still honours that young man
in a commemorative poem
about a pointless war,
a promising life
cut tragically short.
No comments:
Post a Comment