Descending in technicolour glory,
Laid out in their finery,
In full regal costume.
Leaving behind skeletons
Of black silhouettes
To stand stark
Against the graphite skies
And crimson sunsets
Congregating in orange drifts
To whisper together in the breeze,
To cavort as whirling dervishes
In one last orgy of delight
Into final rest
To give their strength back
To the soil.
The remembrance services make me reflect on the futility of life. We are born, live our lives in a brief burst of colour and are recycled back to the soil from where we drew our strength.
Men in those trenches, a hundred years ago, were still green. They never had their chance to rustle in the summer breeze or feel the sun. Their autumn came sudden and returned them to the ground too early.
Yet there is such beauty in the autumn leaves, resplendent in their colours, and the skeletal trees stripped of their clothes. There is wonder in life, no matter how brief.