3132026

Where the flowers do go to wilt,

O land of blood-dark bitter dirt,

the shaded flag shadow hanged crooked from the hilt, 

tilting but tall, tired of all that glory that was once worth —

a boy calls out a name,

O Mother! O Mother!

The oldest prayer the throat has built.

His breath is short and curdled at the throat,

each note a battle fought for flavour, 

for the grace of it, 

for a table set by hand, 

for a meal that love did tend.

But instead, silence without a taste falls behind.

Never heard nor listened to, they swallow the scream he screams inside,

and the night comes to the day, and the day does come to close his eyes.

O Mother! O Mother!

You who set the table — you who tended the meal — you with all your grace.

For what braveries there were, they kept him not,

for the thinness of them was ne’er to keep the sword, the bite —

but the warmth of them, and warm there were, 

was the last to hold him, and the last for him to hold.

It was there he remembered your name,

spoken to the ground.

It was there he saw the sun taken from the sky,

and he, the moon, fell into your arms.

O Mother! O Mother!

Hear his cry — hold him down so he has not to fight.

Miles from this wasteland turned t'ward the long grey waters, 

the mother, O Mother,

shortened by the breeze, 

by the years and the rain,

bereaved, she thinks of love and calls it by name —

a young boy green, wide and bright of eye, 

not yet the tide there wished him ill,

bare-footed, running wild amongst the trees still.