"Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir?"
Wilfred Owen

I enter late, my timing out.
I hear the ragged sobbing, the
distress, the breaking,
as I join the mass.

They stand in a motley line,
not quite in sync. Heads turned,
eyes streaming. Whimpering
and distraught.

I am efficient. My gaze
sweeps over the scene and
only for a short period.

I take in the pictures, shapes
and texture, lace. Solemnity.
The dates engraved in our hearts.

Clutching hands, I hug them to me.
(You must not touch her.)

We stand together at the bedside
but no lullaby can soothe our nightmare.

I recommend Heaney's Mid-term Break, and Owen's Futility.