Lest…

Each time the bugle shimmers
the dead, we like to fancy, stir a little.
We care for them still. They matter.
The shrill of threaded brass through
the autumn morning, the river-mist
rising, our breath plumes regret,
the school choir blowing into their hands.
It’s a long time, we know, but they are
remembered, they are.
‘Don’t put yourselves
to such trouble, ’ – kindly, the dead voices.
‘They make so little difference, the brass,
the tears. Can’t you leave us be?’ Yet
the sergeant’s holler insisting, the rifles’
curt salute, their volley racketing
downstream. Lest we. Lest we. . . .
‘Lest we know we are actually dead,
Is that your point?’