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The fresh cut grass stirs memories,
Adding some fragrance to life.
Or maybe not.
In this quietness, I am an intruder,
Observing, breaking personal space,
Seeking some detail to understand.
Is a pale stone a helpful reminder,
Of a life given for freedom?
Private by name, but public by nature
You lie here in peace.
Sheltered by consoling walls and time,
Protected by birdsong, caressed by trees.
Who were you Owen, I wonder today.
What did you like to embrace or hate.
Had you a loved one and did you dream,
Of a future of sunshine and things to do.
Before the gruesome nightmare came calling
Through mud, cannon bomb and rifle fire
Releasing a pain that never ended
With horrors hushed and but never forgotten.
In this still quietness, I ponder
By your solemn grave with poppies
I remember a soldier who came home
Before my time and in days forgotten
A grandfather loved and respected.
Whose memories were deposited
Quietly, never to be retold in any way,
To family, myself or anybody else.
Searching for comfort in the beauty of silence,
But hiding the screaming, recurring nightmares,
Therefore protecting us from detail and death.
Remembering - Private Owen Loughran 17733 (died 10th November 1916) Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers
By Jim McParland
