I no longer want to know the names of soldiers.
Good or bad, they are as thick as weeds.
All of them should cross over the river
to rest under the shade of trees.
The ground under that wide spread oak,
where the children share stories
and play chase games,
harbors a mass of steel helmets.
Their dogs dig up
an abundance of bones to gnaw
on history purposefully forgotten
so forgiveness might triumph over vengeance.
The river, as it is wont to do, will change course in time
and wash away the children’s footprints,
the dogs’ paw prints, the wide spread oak
and the tarnished rusted glory down below.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney