Eleven

Beneath the curling clouds, white and darkest grey,
A measly crowd align, on a cold and sodden day
To take their silent solace, in a ritual long supported,
And listen to the memory, of lives that once were thwarted.

But a roll call of the dead, of names now lost to fate,
Is smothered by the noise, of a world that will not wait;
And yet from somewhere distant, the bugle’s noise is clear,
To fall upon the gathered troop, with mournful notes of fear.

And as the cold collective, consider with respect,
The depths of those lives wasted, a world in retrospect,
A surging wind starts blowing, the clouds that hide the sun,
And they stand in silent contemplation, of the deaths of World War One.