Sunday, 8 November 2020

Not Silence, But Weeping (rondeau redouble)

 


 

When first we stood remembering, in grey November air,

In deep, thick mires, fogs, mists of grief

Despite stiff upper lipped despair,

We heard not stately silence, but in those moments, brief,

Collective weeping, sobbing, communal disbelief.

And generations later, we hear again, today

The sobbing of a people, who think on death, the thief.

When first we stood remembering in grey, November air

Still in our simple innocence, we did our best to bear

The loss, and vast incompetence of little men in chief

Who’d used us ill and with contempt and acted without care.

In deep, thick mires, fogs, mists of grief

Red poppied lampposts almost glow, among each life, each fallen leaf

To be replaced, yet not regrow, and freedom’s gone, we know not where.

Yet still returns a sad motif,

Despite stiff upper lipped despair,

We needs must lay our souls bare

 And weep once more for what we’ve lost and seek some means to find relief.

 For though a hundred years ago, we bowed our heads in silent prayer

We heard not stately silence, but in those moments, brief,

The weeping of a nation. And shall we say those men who fought may just as lief

Have given in, surrendered all? We would not dare,

Yet hypocrites, we will not fight, we merely dab a handkerchief

As liberty lies smashed, destroyed beyond repair,

 Remembering.

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