Through the deep mud and the mire,
through the blood and the raging fire,
she walks this dream of a child,
a dirty face, and feral wild.
Picking flowers and smiling as she goes,
She strides across the dread windrows,
Fallen dead stacked line by line,
beneath the glow of bleeding sky,
she places flower upon their eyes,
hides gaping wounds as they die,
then walks on barefoot and immune,
through the hell of killing ground.
Among the unmarked graves she goes,
and on each mound she sets a winter rose.
The dead she tends, she hears them call,
she wears their ends a tattered shawl
and hears the un-silent voices call.
She sits among their stories all,
hears the echoes of life ended,
kisses the wind and hugs the rain
and sends the dead on their way.
She is a ghost this war child,
this creature of the battle front,
a spirit of the sky and earth,
an angel sent to ease the hurt.
She takes the crush and the blow,
she takes the searing pain of fire,
she takes it all onto herself,
frees it unblemished to the air.
She tells stories of a better life,
to the brave who fell amidst the strife,
she gifts them a story and an end,
so that they may be peaceful then.
©Dave Kavanagh 2016