The Salute
A wizened right hand
Stiffens
To salute the ghosts of no-man’s-land
As the left wipes mustard memories
That leave his eyes to join the breeze
Another century begins its pass
And he pauses
To think of friends
Who barely saw the last
Some that left him had eyes wide open
Others, eyes shut fast
Nowhere to hide for he nor they
Amid the nightmare of the gas
And so he struggles to come to terms
With decades of family and life
Why he alone among his friends
Was blessed with a future, a wife
But answers lie beyond his reach
As they did decades before
When they approached that foreign beach
Young and brave and proud to the core
Now, with wizened heart and wizened hand
With bones creaking but determined to stand
Medals touch his chest, hang cold on his suit
His eyes lower,
and glisten
Then he gives a salute.
Copyright 2003 John A Coughlan
