Faltering
the sound of a distant church bell
flocks of starlings
in the village
all men are dressed in black
proceeding to the grave site
I can see it from my refuge
high on the hill
in the weakening winter sun
who Matthews was
I hardly knew
whether he fought
I do not know
bound for the earth
all in his time
I light a cigarette
and going downwind
I descend
into the inky grey