the shot went right thru me
blim blam clean as a
whistling nite on a mountaintop.

the flower that bloomed
that early morning nite
reminded me of other times
and other meadows
stories my Dad told me

the lamps edge burns bright
into this night here
a tumbled bed a billeted room
memories that are not my own
but have blood     and could be
other stories other wars
other countries other policies
that were formed
before we were born

and the cigarette burns low
into its last ember and dying glow
and the cadence of the night
slows down     at last

the last dreg is lifted and toasted
and all these ones
this audience go now to roost

to be to dream
to sleep… for now

John Tench