Last Dispatch

The gravel crunched

beneath their heavy tread

Four polished boots,

a quiet shade of grey

They walked the path

where only children play

With hats in hand,

and words they wished unsaid

She watched them from the kitchen window pane

The tea-kettle began its lonely rise

Before they spoke, she read it in their eyes

And dropped the porcelain into the rain

(oh no)

And the world stands still in a uniform's shadow

No bugle plays, no banners wave high

Just the heavy silence of a winter meadow

Under an empty, unforgiving sky (unforgiving sky)

His father sat

upon the wooden porch

And stared into the valley,

cold

and wide

He did not speak,

he did not even cry

He simply watched the dying

of

the torch

No more letters coming home

(no more, no more)