1…2…3…roll
1…2…3…roll
1…2…3…roll
1…2 and 3
The caisson lumbers
with iron regret
as drums pound
a permanent print
in the grey ground
of so many minds.
An imprint worn
like vaccine scars.
Three measures march
in perfect time.
The fourth rebels–
the story it tells!–
with the horrible half-beat
of order upended.
A beat unstable,
a sudden stumble–
the ground of grief
rising to meet
a young generation
face to face.
Today will fester
and throw a scar,
the persistent pulse
beating its way
into our hearts
and stamping our souls.
The horses shy
and stamp at the tomb.
……
