The Veteran

Do you see him?

He comes here every day. I don't know why.

He waits until the shadows lengthen into giants

And the low-lying clouds are stained red by the sun

And the air starts to grow chill and clear.

He sits and waits, staring up at the sky

Or down at the pebbled ground

Or far out into the distance,

Looking at something that none of the rest of us can see.

Sometimes he brings a flower.

Sometimes he strokes the cold black stone

And a tear gleams in the corner of his creased eyelid.

His face is worn and sun-tanned and wrinkled by the hard years of his life

As he remembers a fresh-faced lad who never saw twenty.