Death Echoes From A Distant Hill

Whistle of wind across the ear of a man on a distant hill, awaiting Father MacGarrity's final blessing of water. The Priest looks up to the hill nods twice, than bows his head; young man on the distant hill his uniform crisp and spotless, medals bright and reflecting off the eye of mid-morning sun, superseded, only, by the brass of his Gunga-Din, resplendent, polished and resting abreast, and upon his cue raises... the gleaming brass bugle to his lips...with mime dexterity. Hard sobs and gentle tears, the wind takes path o'er treetops, as if even the Heavens knew better to disrupt the lament below it. And all those who had come here- one by one in procession drop their single red rose gently upon the wood, in sharing of grief, and comfort, on the silent field of crosses, and do so in solemn respect- to the chords that ride on breeze, to the echo of woe and pathos; the haunting blowing of Taps. {FjR}MMXIX{MIA}