I remember the last time I saw the scrawled graffiti on the storm drain wall.
Although it was written with an uncomfortable hand,
its message would make an angel weep in frustration
and the effect it had on me was to change things for a while.
I would hide in that drain pipe when times got rough,
when thinking in my room about events and others
words upon my soul and mine, perhaps more hurtful,
that would scar their heart and have me scar my arms.
…and the last post rings out over the graveyard
as we recounted the sad winter’s tale.
Your bugle now safely wrapped along with your R.E.M.E. beret
as those who loved you came to mourn and mark Time in the time
honoured way.
A husband, proud, strong and decent.
A Father and Uncle much adored and who was someone to look
up to; a brother to many who lined the aisle of the church
much like the way in which the trains
stood majestically when they had
come to a
halt.