A soldier stands on a deck packed off to peace.

Ships pass in the night with a nod and a wink;

the war is over.

A welcome of noisy joy won’t waken the dead

but he flinches at flags and the band’s changed tune;

whirl-winded away.

He will keep to the humdrum beat of ordinary days

wear a face with a name in a place called home;

hold secrets close to.

When he gathers with comrades the drink will not open his soul

nor blot out the memory’s false armistice;

it will be like this.

When you lay a wreath for the nameless who died in the war,

hold closer the ones who live, unknown, in the peace.