I watched the fledgling widow,
A charcoal figurine,
A transcendent remembrance vista,
White marble upon emerald green.
Determinedly she made her search,
Row upon row upon row,
Pausing every so often,
Before she made to go,
Onward, ever onward,
Until she found the very spot,
Where her true love was laid to rest,
He that time almost forgot.
There she knelt on one knee,
Dabbed her eye with handkerchief,
Bowed her head with courtliness,
Cold comfort begets fresh grief.
For her the search now over,
Little else could the widow gain,
Save to absorb those precious moments,
From afar I felt her pain.
Albeit that I am no photographer I took this snap at Étaples Military Cemetery. It is a Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery in Northern France, near Boulogne. The cemetery holds over 11,500 dead from both WW1 and WW2. As I understand it Etaples in WW1 was never in the front line. It is a place where there was a hospital for the wounded. The poem, such as it is, is a figment of my imagination stood there as I was, quite overwhelmed – more so than when at some of the bigger cemeteries for reasons I cannot explain.