T A P S... (Rp) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

T A P S... (rp)

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superseded, only, by the brass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 blow of Taps.


FjR-MMXV