Behind the Stone, Beyond the Name

Collecting pictures for a poetry workshop, a photograph of a young woman leaning over the headstone of her husband, killed in action during the Gulf War, captured her very personal grief.

Widow weeps amongst the memories
And floral tributes; bowing heads, ribbon threads.
So young, so full of promise, lies dead.
No matter the language, the ceremony,
Euphemistic eulogies still sting her soul,
Whilst his was given up for better, bitter hopes.

Each year we will remember, but how soon
Will we weep in our turn
For other souls so lost, so young, so hopeful?
Not long – look around –
A world map weeps with blood
Of young men and young widows.

The red, the pink, the gold, the green,
Are replaced by burning sand, and smoking guns
Sold to keep the home fires burning –
Burning instead the skin, the flesh, the bones, the souls
Of those who weep amongst the memories.