Remembrance in a Small Parish by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

The autumn ground is hungry
and grey teeth of war graves
swallow surnames by half bloomed flowers.

A little girl is yawning like bugles
tired is she of remembering him
with buttercup lanterns underneath her chin.

The autumn birch is all but bare
bowls reach out for paper queens
yet black and white pawns were given first.

A baby cries at the granite crib
hushed through god-clock silence
do not walk your babes away for they shall never fib.

The automated bells are ringing,
androids grope a soldier to be shared
so he can be liked before becoming invisible .

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