So hung with rain, this June green morning,
–water pleating the air–
that vapour rebounding veils the grass.

Such young dreams as drench the uniform
seep from the earth as much as weep from clouds.

Behind swift shins and marching feet
the mist of unremembered fathers eddies upward
as though breath still too young
or sweat too fresh to foul the air.

These many young men sprint and leap
through white cross clouded grass.
Their hearts heave grandfathers’ blood over fathers’ trenches.

And later sons of sons, men alone or many-gathered,
will come here in the rain,
water beating the ear,
their own lungs lunging to fill with cool, moist air.

© Douglas Elves, published in Legacy magazine, Alberta, 1998