BY SAL WYLIE
Copyright is held by the author.
Our impatient feet knead the soft ground freshly soaked with rain
sinking slightly, we wonder how soaked our shoes will get,
until the pastor reads …. in Flander’s Fields.
What of those soldiers’ feet, their boots worn thin,
with holes, no soles
too big, too small,
the winter mud and freezing snow
cordite in their face, plugging their nose;
not like here,
on a clear November morning watching wreathes held by old hands.
Next to us, just on the other side of the fence, a clothes line of t-shirts catches the wind,
then the long-sleeved white shirts,
they fill with wind, long arms dangling,
row on row
waving to the crowd of townsfolk clustered with the veterans, the trumpeter and the vicar.
The shirts, straining against the clothespins, stretch out, as if calling
“Remember me”, they flutter………… ghosts in empty sleeves.