Gone

*

Ramparts Cemetery, Lille Gate,

Ypres.

In reverential British fashion,

the memorials stand to attention,

white lines of prim Portland Stone

regimented beside the still water,

tended, trim eternal markers.

But next to each headstone

in this silent green pasture,

a soldier leans on his rifle,

worn by battle, torn by longings,

restored in rough khaki

(the lice long departed),

watching as we step between them,

holding hands, all empathy and regret.

The spirits shake their heads

at this obsession with remembrance,

when those living -

they are focused on you, you -

could be drinking in a bar,

eating and singing, making love,

maybe, in some estaminet

or among spring flowers.

All are respectful with their gaze,

of course they are,

holding dead cigarettes,

silently stroking a stubbled chin

or a boy’s soft cheek,

as they watch your face,

your hair, your figure,

the sway of your skirt,

a knee, almost, almost,

trying to conjour again

the touch of warm skin

and the sigh of soft breath:

those things gone for ever,

ripped from them a century ago

by the mud that held them,

the explosions that wracked them

and the carnage

that speared its nails into their heads and bellies.

*Inscription on the headstone of Private Harry Lindsay Joynson,

Rifleman, 19, The King’s Liverpool Regiment, died 18 April 1915