Karen Booker: November 2015
I fight against the cold of winter's breath
as I make my way through rows of crosses
towards the memorial wall:
a massive monolith to man's massacre of man.
The names of
our glorious dead -
too numerous to count or contemplate,
send shivers down my spine.
I turn to face the landscape bleak,
with crimson stains of poppy streaks -
this land as much a testament to these
as any stones.
I turn again, and touch the wall,
to find it strangely warm beneath my fingers.
These aren't just names, but sons and husbands,
who gave their all — that I can live.
I leave much warmer in my heart and mind
touched by his memorial to humankind.
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