Specs, white, but stones.
Men laid end to end,
their spirit seizing the ground.
A sea, a ship under fire,
booms, canons rip the air.
But here so silent,
now the breeze lay arms
to rest, their battle lies in
green grass of years gone by.
Trees of mild years remember
our forbears, they cursed no doubt
their enemies, weeds lie fallow,
no disrespect to a salute to men.
A sea dried with age, blood red
for years, for freedom in distant
An echo of pine, hardwoods,
sublime shade, but marble lays
the quite wreath to rest.
These barracks of men, these
tiny white yards kept for years,
grass of no forces, blessed with
a lamb of stone.
They know what it was to land,
to heave bones, muscles across sand
beaches, red stained with plans
and stories and history.
I see the regiment, the white lines,
the bird that sings of buried medals,
beneath the fallen men and women.
Known and unknown.
© 2012 Larry Ingram