A SONNET FOR REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY
(Malcolm Guite)
November pierces with its black remembrance
Of all the bitterness and waste of war.
Our silence tries but fails to make a semblance
Of that lost peace they thought worth fighting for.
Our silence seeths instead with wraiths and whispers,
And all the restless rumours of new wars,
The shells are singing as we sing our vespers,
No moment is unscarred, there is no pause,
In every instant bloodied innocence
Falls to the weary earth, and whilst we stand
Quiescence ends again in acquiescence,
And Abel’s blood still cries in every land.
One silence only might redeem that blood
Only the silence of a dying God.
MASSES AT ST CATHERINE'S THIS WEEK
No comments:
Post a Comment