Harold Macdonald's Muse


 

Death in Afghanistan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harold Macdonald

Night past. Mid-morning in Afghanistan

already hot. Airborne, home the coffins turn

in dust you died and unto dust thou dost return 

Too soon, before  your children knew the man

 

The ceremonies, tears, the reveille

The leaderís rhetoric, clapper of a broken bell

The solemn tones, and thread-bare trappings cannot tell

Why death should come so very far away

 

You have no allies there, no family, friends

No common bonds, no story intertwined

A god-forsaken  place - as  any you can find

Why such a desert place to meet your end?

 

Between the why and what too great the leap

No spark can jump, no shred of sense to speak.

 

Midi: Flowers of the Forest

Background: The Poppy