Mourning Mist Poem by sal carter

Shot down at dawn
The dew still plucking at the mud.

The lions stare
Defiant and proud,

Half risen sun,
Burning in his eyes,

No fear curled up,
Behind black pupils,

Chin held high
Neck stretched taught,

First morning mist
Pulling at his boots,

Like the first wisps
Of heaven,

Young boys hands
Held calm behind his back

To give his life
For king and country.

Executed at dawn
The dew still plucking at the mud.