To The War Poets

When classified
As Apollo that short lived
Beauty is recalled,
For it never moved on
To anything
Other than that…

Highly doubtful,
That he asked for the
Backdrop of violins
And scratchy voices,
Only the words, that
Which made
The beginning and
Mattered in the end.

The swallows
Are still brave, the fields
Of Flanders, of Germany
And France and all the
Nameless sites
Are still
Green.

Dust still manages to form itself
From Man.

And, if going, then, if
It were to be present,
Then the Nobility and
The Places of Battle
Would not carry the same
Poignant emphasis. All the
Tender young men,
Off to record and die and
Thereby, live,
Such further thought
Describing then the
Soft-deft caress
Of epaulets and gleaming
Silver, when it was…
As it was.

The guns rest
Silent, antiquities in
European museums, next to
A young godlet's
Photograph,
Some hastily scrawled
Verse, still.

A doctor or a gunner,
The misplaced cavalry hero,
Not Crimea nor Alsace-Lorraine.
Ah, that is
The tragedy of it.
Someone had to fall
And the grass is yielding
As a lonely
Train startles the
Watchful
Swallows