© Steve King
All rights reserved
Each note gathers
to lift the last song,
like bright birds at twilight
soon to shade gone.
Like the faint sound of cannon
now drawn to retreat,
or the old battle’s echo,
at last complete.
Like the voice of his captain,
the final command,
to call fallen comrades
from all the far lands.
Then the song slips to silence,
the flag put away;
the caisson stands ready
to carry the day.
He surrenders at last
to the earth’s warm embrace,
that impregnable bunker
no pains may displace.
(Note:
Reflections on the military funeral of Joseph F. Clancy, US Army
for Imaginary Gardens…)
