X) Till Young Men Exit

I take lime &; lemon tea,
a zip of citrus will brighten up the day for me.
- Don't chide me girl.

Thin black ties, and armbands as if
we are all amateur swimmers
in the murkiest of waters.
- Perhaps we are?

For these are the long dark days
of diggin' ditches and burying friends.
Of moonlight soliloquies from cockney gents.

It always rains on these days.
'Angels are weeping' someone says.
- I roll my eyes.

Carrying the box.
The grandfather clock, with golden handles.
Shoulder spinkled with resin and wood.
Sawdust in the lungs.

This was a solider
who dived from end to end of a barnhouse stable
as bombs fell in to shave life from him.

He was a bombardier who stood behind a wall,
catching grenades and throwing them back
before the green baubels could impact.

The church bells
are ringing out, marking each heavy pace
like a death knell, a gong to signify the end.

Why is it that the final steps are never your own?

Imagine the days when he sat in France with his pals.
Talking about the German's, risking life and limb
to keep the likes of me free.
Those teams of young men are mostly dust now,
names on black granite at some museum.

I am left in the rain with a gold pocket watch and a bruise
and a wreath that i found.
I wind it down until the ticking stops,
like the biological timepiece we put in the ground.