Farewell to a Soldier
Upon a grassy hill,
And while we bowed our heads in prayer,
The wind was whistling shrill.
My mind went back to other days,
When Michael was but ten,
And running with the wind at play;
For the wind was Michael's friend.
They raced and flew his kite so high,
And laughing with the sun,
They ran and played together,
From morn' till day was done.
And then the bugler sounded taps . . .
We slowly walked away.
And the wind a dirge was singing
Where the brave young soldier lay.
Author Bio
Margaret E. Johnson wrote poetry all her life. But she didn't just decide she would write one. They just came to her, popped into her head and she would sit down and write the poem by hand (no typewriter) and then stuff it into the drawer with all her others.
At one time her family counted one hundred fifty-seven poems, and that was back in 1968. Now, they have only seventeen. Ms. Johnson died of Alzheimers.
During the early stages, while she was still ambulatory and functioning most of the time, her husband found her sitting on the floor in the guest room with scraps of paper strewn all around her. She was tearing up her poems. He rescued the seventeen still in existence.
Twilight Times ezine is proud to present the timeless work of a very fine poet.
[Editor's note: Mike was killed by "friendly fire" in Vietnam at age eighteen.]
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