In grief she came to stand alone
to gaze upon the names in stone,
the perished in the wars of man
from Passchendaele to Afghanistan.
Then lowering her gentle head
she whispered to her heart and said
“Jack wasn’t vain or hard, just kind,
a friend so quietly wonderful
and mine.
From across the miles I caught the flower
of a boy our wreaths can never grow,
and no, it is not beautiful,
(that does not matter now)
but wild and alive.
His love did not die.
Oh Jack,
so long,
I’m waiting so long for you.
So dreamed, my eternity, one with you.
And I crave your kind of loving from my cradle to my grave,
the love you saved.
But I’ll cling to the last thing
your letters said.
That each day, your not further,
but closer instead.
My Jack. So brave. So true.
As a bugle sounds
in an Anywhere town,
I’ll remember You”
