Morning March

Strolling mythical lanes
before citizens waken
my singular step echoes
hastening my mind to ponder
visualize, conjure
throngs of foot soldiers
in rank and file, anticipating battle
sweat and leather and dusty sandals
sharpened swords, lances, shield, behind
their families weep, wonder
in months, years, or ever, a return?
Perhaps, upon same flagstone, stained crimson
fell many in defense, invasion, regime change
yet, gone
such signs, wiped clear by time’s stride
a veneer conceivably whitewashed
as we roving bees to history’s honey, innocent
of foregoing savagery
still, without such brutal truths
her charms, bewitch still

Photo and poem (c) by DC Lessoway