Grandfather

By
The sharp beat of a drum.
A marksman shouts.
Gunshots fire and fade.
A brassy bold trumpet cries a mournful tune.
Within revered wall that have seen many a company gather and weep,
A picture of a man hangs watching the proceedings with a resigned kind of air
The Father speaks word of remembrance and respect for a man grown and gone.
A soldier’s best friend shares the pieces of a laughing boy’s past,
While yellow roses lie wreathed ‘round a flag.
Tears fall as rain for those assembled here
And yet outside the weather is clear, bright, and warm,
Like the arms of a man and the heart of his lady
Who stand watching over and waiting
On the ones they held dear.





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