In Honour

Let the obsequious, sycophant lickspittles rant 
I’m staying in bed - rising before four am does 
not bother me, do it conscientiously most days; 
but if its merely public-assembly panaceas for 
communal aneurism seeking relief - autocratic 
edict of a conscience phrased such it must be 
obeyed - no way. We shared that commonality 
uniformed and beribboned, a grief-like plague 

But don’t go away bereaved, don’t squeeze a 
trigger on me; I’m not denying 25 April’s a way 
of saying thanks, a rejoicing each soul sees in 
different light. To me there will only ever be the 
glory of why we pay our homage gladly, not a 
grand geste of where we’re made to stand 

There’s promise in breaking of dawn, grace and 
elegance suborn that dazed, venomously arced 
bomb-blasted gunfire amazed; - on this day all 
bugler’s greet the sun with sibilant verse, in our 
prayers the hearse bears dead of conflicts past 
their glories lilt fervently in our grateful hearts 
© 25 April 2014, I. D. Carswell