Tyne Cot Cemetery
Blood-red the berries the yew trees bear,
Flesh-soft amid the shining dark, yet the fruit falls
Uneaten and ignored, for few birds feed here.
Bone-white the headstones, rank-on-rank,
Shoulder-to-shoulder, some named, some not,
Yet all cared for tenderly, with offerings
Of flowers, crosses, letters and the like.
I did not weep; I could not.
For to begin, one could never make an end.
Instead, I tuned it out, I numbed my soul,
Silenced the internal howls of horror,of grief
For a generation wiped carelessly from the earth,
All hopes and dreams and loves gone, lost,
In a sea of endless mud and politicians’ lies.
October 6th 2017,
Tyne Cot Cemetery, Ypres, Belgium
This poem appeared in The New European last week.
This post first appeared on Zen And The Art Of Tightrope Walking – TRYING TO, please read the originial post: here