Some remnant living in muscle memory
is pressed, dressed and polished each time
he marches, slowly now and with tired bones,
to the Legion for his Friday bingo.
Terminal Leave. France 1917
I spent last night in my valley.
Green and peaceful, it is.
Slow wagons of unburdened past
creak slow down berry-bright lanes.
A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,
Out of what has gone before
We hang by threads of destiny;
Too late to change or to restore?
Tethered to a stump of memory
a Wish lies bleaching in white isolation.
Dream winds worry its fading outline,
cracked lights shine on it - sometimes.