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Mar. 15th, 2008
It has been twenty years since he served his country, but still he holds himself like the soldier he was then, and his head turns to the sound of drums, or bugles, as if listening for commands he no longer has to follow. Twenty years since Maiwand, and still he dreams of it at night, and calls to the men he could not save. And when the weather seeks to turn from summer heat to autumn rains his left arm tells me so, coming to rest awkwardly in the never forgotten outline of the sling which held it long ago.
It has been twenty years since he served his country, but still he holds himself like the soldier he was then, and his head turns to the sound of drums, or bugles, as if listening for commands he no longer has to follow. Twenty years since Maiwand, and still he dreams of it at night, and calls to the men he could not save. And when the weather seeks to turn from summer heat to autumn rains his left arm tells me so, coming to rest awkwardly in the never forgotten outline of the sling which held it long ago.