The minute crowing of the cock
At dawn.
Darkness descending
With bleat and moo.
The past receding with the break of day.
Nightmares tucked in pouches
For the night that is yet to come.
Sweat-ridden man waking
From restless slumber.

The early chores of morning,
Dust clouds on quiet homesteads.
Laden women fighting against day dreams,
While men stare at the horizon
Waiting for the season to come,
The season of planting.

Silent village
That echoes murmurs of the earth.

Quiet afternoon
Of visitors and the visited,
Of stories told and stories shared –
. . . do you remember the war . . . ?
War now a memory
Village now a memory
Heroes now a memory
Fading.
. . . do they remember us . . . ?

Dusk,
Sunset.
Silent village
Of monotonous routine.
Dusk,
Sunset.
Fires flickering in the darkness,
Conversation in the settling chill –
. . . do they remember us . . . ?
Darkness descends.