Pain of a hero.

Granite slices of tomb

above sunken soldier of doom.

Who could foretell?

The grave of umpteen slain

in action at

Gavrelle April 1917.

Some shocked trees are gnarled

and barely stenciled upon

the evergreen awning

in the fingers of a petrified

Angel Gabriel.

The sheer low arc

of another winter sun

is bronzing the cask

of a wartime paragon.

Twilight bound

the the moon shall light

some letters

to shape an epitaph

to dream another night.

A birdsong soundtrack

is the theme of thy soul.

Captain of a short life.

No more wounds at Gavrelle.

Ring the bell.

I am the vigil

still here today.

I am the flowers

on your memorial causeway.

Projected along this sacred site

are the wings

from your shoulders

in the midst of flight.

Decorated by your country

beloved son.

The honour story

in motion

for what plight

for so long?

And the gates to this pasture

are closing at five.....

Static in this transient hill

I must leave.

I can tell.

May you rest in peace

along this line of rhyme.

Upon your heroic cry

we still dwell.

And the bell

echoes the bell.

Taken

with no sword to defend

pain of a hero.

Slain in action

at Gavrelle.