The White Stone Crosses O' Donegal

Their today's begin- as the yesterday's, frosted dew from th' nights cold mist- blanketing acres of serrate damp soil, sunshine grazing tips of grass-blade; peacefully warm white burst of light, perhaps Mother Natures kinder side- for their silent, mortal dwelling place, boxed below th' sod- forever sleeping be these souls of unfinished business, far-long beyond injustice an' bloodshed, taken young for th' love of free breath, now buried in a field of white crosses; real names attached to dates and war, their dates so tragically not far apart, [an' their stories would pale a ghost]. An' from th' lowlands to th' highlands, beyond th' smooth shores o' Donnegal- there be scant sod, for the future dead fresh green sod has, lo, turned to sage, red nascent sunsets eclipse stoned arch. shadows creep, gradually....hauntingly- [o'er th' etchings... of every white Cross]. And we visit...lay down silent prayers that Peace be found...by these Soldiers, keep them warm in eversleep.....'neath- th' chill...........of their white stone cross. © 2019-All rights reserved Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR