Walking Backwards

From a window a Beeman tends his hive in rigid vane form, sentinely marking the start and in turn the stinging end.
And I think of you. I call your name for rhyme only Louise. A book of flowers, a book of trees to please Louise with tales of all these things I’ve seen from C35 to C37 and further and back as i tramped alone to my minds romantic hill. My romantic hill is beautiful its true with its banks of yellow and odd purple blooms. Mysterious too. Hidden amongst its statuesque copse wherein man sat in front of fire in uncanvassed tepee by unattended silent, still swings that wait for winds before they swing again. But romantic? Without you? How romantic?
As romantic as Elaine Daniels? 74 in 91 and Bill Pearse 79 who died within a year of his spouses demise? His bride when both of Dulwich, who kept her name bravely for their mutual year of marriage. 40. Makes you think. Makes you think who they were, what they did, where they walked in this green and pleasant land they loved so well. It makes you think too if it would be braver to take another name at that time with the death’s, they missed then, a given. Would it have been braver to retain the name as the crewmen and gunners did before crashing in this place but two years on from 40. Mottling this sacred landscape with a new mausaleum amongst the grass and rape.
And i sit again and i write again and i think of you, the events that bought me here. As written on stone, as etched in tin, iron ore other so that it reads at the going down of the sun, when it ends and in the morning when it starts we will remember each and every one of them


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