A Headstone

His name was John, as I am John.
All I knew was a broken urn
that never bore flowers. A patch
of grass at which I was obliged
to stare, to conjure false pictures
of pre-war childhood. Beneath blades,
council mown, bones thin as rabbit
remains, a boy who looked like me -
perhaps - is now long gone; shovelled
up to make room for more recent
mourners to plant their monuments
for people equally unknown.
I place these words here: a headstone,
so that more than I remember.