Maybe if Granite Bled

I sit against the cenotaph
in Portreetown, on Isle of Skye,
and cry for every absent lad
who went away to war, and died.
The cold stone reads, “To the glory of God,”
who we like to think takes sides;
like any father worth a sod
would choose which child he wants to die.

Their children’s children’s kids should be
alive and thriving here beside me,
playing carefree games and wondering
what their mums might make for tea.
Instead, I’m here with names inscribed
for men who marched away from here;
men who never lived to brush aside
their daughters’ wedding tears.

I see no stone to celebrate
the maimed or forever-changed;
nor the sweethearts, mums and wives
who mourn framed yellowed yesterdays.
Instead of marble and parades
and etchings to, “The Glorious Dead”,
what if monuments portrayed
the homicide of war instead?

If every name we carve in place
could bleed and scream like murdered men,
would that let us hesitate
before we start it all again?
Is glory so worth dying for?
Seems like Honor’s Folly to me.
Can there be a war to end war?…
Does dark end dark?
Can dead boys dream?

Lee DeNoya - Portree, Isle of Skye, 11/11/20

Art - Claire Martin