That sweet harmonica wail of memory
Afflicts me, again, as the radio plays:
The sweet familiar words she says
Pass, like wind in the reeds; a glance,
A tender romance. Moments stream away
Coalesce, and in the usual messy way
Of the day-to-day, quite suddenly there’s
A pause. Another century: and the same
Pain. Suffering beneath a cloud-ridden sky,
A ray of sunshine quickly glances by
As girls in light summer dresses -
On an Easter Sunday holy day -
Dance and twirl their freshly-
Washed tresses while all around
Unsteady gleams in a far-away sky
Illuminate the bloody bodies of boys
Scattered on this holy ground.