HomeWritersLiterary AgentsEditorsPublishersResourcesDiscussion
Forum Login | Join the discussion
+ Reply to Thread
Page 2 of 2 FirstFirst 1 2
Results 11 to 12 of 12

Thread: Poppy Day

  1. #11
    martin shaw

    Re: Poppy Day

    Oh, and the bugler will call the last post, as well.

  2. #12
    martin shaw

    Re: Poppy Day

    a day of remembrance

    Today, I saw redundant soldiers limping in formation past a giant war memorial. The shadow of its cross stretched out onto the tarmac road... the shape reminiscent of an old fashioned Junker bomber that haunted the marchers with flash backs of days in black and white.

    They stood side by side in institution once again; severed neurons glued and identity resumed: if only for a while. A young bugler called the last post, before the thoughts of slamming torpedoes and bombs were replaced by slamming whiskeys and rums at the local village pub. Grievances long since aired, and youth still familiar in the handshake of comrades, glistened in the eyes of friends and family. Will of iron succumbed to the ethanol, as senses tricked the subconscious in to being young once again.

    I watched as one old soldier, sitting by himself... stood up and quickly saluted; no one laughed, and glasses were raised in silence: time again for reflection. Pleasantries resumed as if at the click of a button, with the talk of how this year’s speech in parts, reflected last year’s speech in part.

    But in another village, and around ten kilometres away, disparity, a compounded legacy.

    Still broken hearted after years of mourning, a widow stands in front of a new cenotaph alone in the cold, flowerless. Her home is a trolley full of junk and rags kept in plastic bags, souvenirs of good times, and each item laying trace to an album that book marks inside a photographic memory. She stoops, following the brail of contours with trembling fingers, stopping at her husband’s name. His crumbled bones are now knitted in to the giant pillar, smooth like porcelain, entwined in his friends. He died in a much later war, leaving two sons that now run to the arms of carers. Vagrant and masochistic she revels, immersing herself in the past so as not to forget her lover, who traded the hearts and minds of his family, to win the hearts and minds of a conquered nation. Fair trade, maybe?

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts