11.11.11

A washed out sun striates across he fields

As storm clouds gather over the west hill.

Calm at present, but the gulls can feel

The coming turmoil as they swoop and wheel

In unexpected silence over head.

How does nature appear to know this time,

This day? An armistice, now almost nine

Decades away, and yet the unnumbered dead

Are ever present, and the lines of graves

As poignant to my heart as any loss

More recent or profound, the untolled cost

Flooding my mind, in dull incessant waves,

           My grand-fathers survived, so I remain

           Thankful, but un-absolved from pain.

Brian Hick Nov 2008

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