Cold Soldiers.

I’m three colours blue, minding,
Do you mind,
Not my own business.
Unknown now, this dead guy here
Was once a friend of mine.

We waited in the cold, turned blue,
Becoming single stones.
The serious business of death,
Your head a hat of snow.

Not my business, but for my town.
In turn we went down there.
Turned to stone,in neat rows,
A retreat in perfect order.

Inconvenient for your freeways
And business parks, we keep
Neat file, rank, name and number
In the middle of your fields.
Well, some not name nor number,
Known but to God, if He recalls.

Still a damp business, believe me,
Our cold forgotten sleep.
But our world is gone away now
And no one left to weep.
I wish you now to leave unknown
The story of our pain.
Best left like last year’s snow,
Or a freezing Monday’s rain.

We fell quietly like snowflakes,
No two of us quite the same.
As if they checked,
Although they tried
To ask the name of this dead guy.

Monument to the Belgian Infantry., Brussels,Belgium..

Resurrection.

It would be useful, I think
To be buried close by
– still in the town
near the river maybe
to have the next-doors neighbourly
on the odd off chance
of a resurrection
in the classical sense
we can huddle with friends
while shading our eyes
and gaze in confusion
and sleepy surprise
‘those were our children,
–  and those theirs’
see of our neighbours
who makes it Upstairs.

Blue door, Montmartre cemetery,Paris,France.