These long, black evenings fill me with premonitions,

The falling of the leaves remind us of our losses.

Captain Wilfred Owen killed in action

During the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal

One week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice.

 

Such terrifying bloomings of a malignant fate,

A godless irony, force us back into our centrally heated caves.

We dream only of warmth, food, sleep.

Dozing in a blue-haze

Of guilty imaginings,

We experience survivor's guilt: blood up to the hilt.

 

Routine cushions the incursions of bitter reality

Until the distressing instress of the dead

Settles like a swamp inside my head.

These eleventh hour remembrances freeze the daily bustle

Make an epiphany of our wasted minutes, hours, years.

Gloom settles like a blanket as the clock strikes eleven

 

Rain brings a Golgotha darkness at noon

As birds scavenge these empty streets.

At the memorial, the only flower is the bloody poppy,

Pinned onto the jackets of the few, remaining men

Their spirits bruised, but never broken.

We will remember them.