by Barry Basden
For three days, the Traveling Wall--
half maybe three-quarter size--
stands on a windy hill
in a far corner of the fort,
away from the bustle of the main post.
Families of a certain age
and old-timers in boonie hats
file past shiny black panels
and leave medals, faded photos, flowers
beneath remembered names.
So many names. Choked-up weeping.
A few salutes. Silence.
Nothing else but the wind
and, in the distance,
the dust of young soldiers preparing.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
very visual & closing stanza particularly moving in its description!
ReplyDeletegood job as always!
I agree very visual and poignant. I saw the Moving Wall in Chicago 1986 and in Macomb, Illinois the following year.
ReplyDeleteI don't know whether to cry or scream. The wasted lives enrage me. There should never have to be a wall . . . .
ReplyDeleteAlice Folkart