13 Years

Rolling wheels,

Through fields of heather,

Browns and purples,

Steel blue of cold,

Regimented act of military manoeuvre,

It's perpitrators oblivious of its repetitive farce.

 

 

As we enter this erie caledonian mist,

A sleepless and dream like state,

From our early sojourn and departure,

Our purpose to reach a distant grave,

Accomplished  under cover of night.

 

Dreams of fresh, crisp, loch pine air,

Diluted with local village coal,

A visit made in tribute,

To a lost or unspent soul.

 

Differing feelings of mourning,

Expressed with silent thoughts,

the drifting scent of roses,

As they bob gently from the shore,

An incident barely spoke of,

Just great sadness....disbelief,

Has become a surreal transcendental feeling,

More of spiritual connection than of grief!

 

Copyright S.Rose