The walking staff digs in a bit
on the pebble paved neat winding way
each time he steps and leans on it
on this bright clear late spring day.

Shadows recline in ordered rows
save for a tree's shade here and there.
All about lush green grass grows.
Far off a field lark sings somewhere.

A shuffling crunch, another pace
from the feeble, fading, limping guy
whose staggered stride still has strange grace.
Headstones salute as he goes by.

But his thoughts belie his age
as he recalls past days of youth,
those times of fear and hate and rage
when battle revealed glory's truth.

Then he blinks and looks around.
The thousand yard stare leaves his face,
remembered cannons' cease their pound.
He comes back to this sacred place.

A step then two and there they are
old friends' names carved into stone
who met their fates in lands afar.
Among old friends he stands alone

Unlike he , they never did grow old
for they were taken in their prime
so he recalls them young and bold,
unworn by strife, unmarked by time.

Then he wonders why he's not with them.
Was it really chance he was passed by
by that reaper dark and grim?
He salutes as one tear leaves leaves his eye.