A silent witness crests the hill
where bloody rain once fell.

The sob and clubbing fractured now –
hearts beat on distant shores

where brothers wait with shaking hands
to charge into the dawn.

Across the Sea of Helle they came,
from many different ports,

to lay down cold on foreign stone,
enlisted on some other front.

Flags hang low and I am borne
by a bugle’s mournful calling,

as first light joins eternal flame
“stand to!” cleaves the morning.

Ryan Stone