The War Statue

My great-grandfather fought for the Union

through the whole Civil War

and lived to continue his study of the classics.

He convinced his home town to erect,

at the terminus of their Decoration Day parade,

a memorial statue of a Union soldier

made entirely of wood.

When a boy I marched to it during WW II

and noticed its severe weathering.

The bayonet and part of the rifle barrel were already gone.

And the wheezing soldier before his WW I bronze statue

vilified the Germans who gassed him.

When thirty I marched to the statue again

as The Korean War was winding down.

The face was disappearing,

the hands had no fingers.

And the armless sailor before his WW II marble statue

vilified the Japanese who sent the Kamikazes.

When I was fifty, I journeyed to Greece.

How wise of the ancient Greeks to dictate

that their grave memorials be made of wood.

Only a tumulus of dirt remained at Marathon.

And the legless vet before his Korean War fiberglass platoon

vilified the Chinese who laid the landmines.

At seventy, I visit the statue alone.

Crows caucus loudly in the surrounding evergreens

and a cold winter rain drenches us.

I can no longer discern

the uniform and cap.

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©  Sherman K. Poultney  3 August 1999            The Frost Place

published in “Breath of Parted Lips II” (CavanKerry Press) 2004,