The Ritual (a poem)

The Ritual

Arriving early for Armistice Day, clutching
service orders, the huddled few
nod greetings. An awkward
waiting. Slow, then urgent, an avalanche
deposits the expectant crowd and we begin.
Names are read: bricks laid in memory's
mortar, an unfinished building.
The coarse rope slips through careful hands,
the flag descends - and silence.

Noisy halyard slaps desperately
against the pole: thoughts tug and
pull. The crowd stills, quickens,
a body crystalised by death, re-membered. Then

the Rouse: sleeper awake!
Hands shake, a deal done,
the waters pushed back - for a while - return.
It is finished.

(written November 2017 on the occasion of the University's annual Armistice and memorial service)