Mosses thrive well on these old stones

obliterating epitaphs

eulogizing these once loved bones,

victims of our inglorious past

their weighted die was early cast,

the price of avarice and empire.

 

Now there's no one left to pray,

bugles are silent -

Colours rotted away -

all that remains - a broken Cross -

a splintered, irrelevent, token Cross,

forsaken and left to decay.

 

Trees have reclaimed this sombre glade,

their roots growing deep as memories fade,

                                                             and history?

                                                                                - discreetly erased.