The Sound of Morning

The air was still at morning light,
the grass was wet, the sky was white.
A single bird began to sing—
so soft it barely touched the spring.

I stood there, hands inside my coat,
and thought of names I couldn’t note.
Too many carved in stone and rain,
too many lost, but not in vain.

They were no heroes made of gold,
just boys and girls who did as told.
They packed their fear with trembling hands,
and crossed the sea to foreign lands.

Some never saw the dawn again,
their voices quiet in the glen.
Yet still the wind remembers all—
each whispering leaf, each bugle call.

Now poppies burn a brighter red,
for those who sleep among the dead.
And though the years drift soft away,
their courage fills the air today.

So when the silence takes its turn,
and all the candles cease to burn,
stand still, and breathe the morning through—
for peace was bought by hearts like you.