“High Honours”

Their camouflaged uniforms
knitted into the soil, blending.
A slab of stone; an ode engraved.
Singing necropolis dorms;
a lullaby for troubled sleeping.
An old marching road repaved.

A silver piece of junk; a metal
honours a patriot’s death.
Honours are made of bullets.
Brothers in arms like Cain and Abel.
Gunpowder stained their last breath –
an update for their audits.

Let us honour their long lives.
We should bless the soil; their deathbed.
Tuck them into body bags
and into the coffin; grim captives.
Yes, let’s remember the dead;
let us bury the used up dish rags...

Nathan Bednarek 2009.