They called us “rough men”,
back in that autumn,
that perfect autumn,
but they didn’t know who we were.
We were captured
in pictures,
now old,
greyscale and sepia-toned.
By winter
we would all be ravaged
and the idea of us being
“rough men”
held a different meaning.
Many succumbed,
to wounds,
to frost,
to madness
and yet we carried on.
Day after day,
night after night,
through field and forest,
roads through hedgerows
and small towns everywhere.
I don’t think
we would have believed you
if you told us,
“Spring is coming.”
Victory parade.
White picket life.
Fast, new cars.
Life would be good
and we would be the reason.
Blood.
Blood bought the land,
but it cost more
than we could ever imagine.
All the pricey booze
and high class hookers in the world
can’t erase
the crimes,
the scars,
the screaming.
Dead men.
Women.
Children.
Our lives built on these
without a thought.
The men who put them there,
they are less than a memory.
Called out once or twice a year
to salute the flag
and pass the torch
to a new breed
of “rough men”,
who will stand against
another insidious tide
and may God Bless them.
The perfect autumn.
We have some time now
to rest and remember,
but we have already forgotten
and that is why
they winter will come again.
And we will have need
for rough men.
To build a new foundation
for the world.
HG – 2018
