Let it be known that there was a storm
When summer had turned fields to lifeless gold
And tongues, tanged with copper, made prayers for rain,
For a change from our turbulent stasis.
With thunder befitting the warlords of old,
Seventy years found their resting places,
The last cord that bound generations frayed,
And difference cast us adrift:
The brass-embossed visage in grandmother’s purse
Will not be the same that my children affix
To letters they write home.
The ships will change names and pronouns,
A voyage into the unknown.
So we pluck from history a grief
Lost almost unto recollection:
Of pilgrimage through still-plagued streets,
Of catafalque and genuflection.
But let it be known that there was a storm,
For the land that she loved still knows how to mourn,
And barrows lit by the harvest moon
Welcomed one of their own.