Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.
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From guest Nick (contact)
One of the few incredibly sad ones by Mr. Milligan (NB i've only read 10 or so) and its a big difference from what he usually does, but he's just as good at it, and just as touching
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