collect their souls
they lay softly and sweetly
in the swamp and on the hill
covered in time and light layers of soil
and rotting leaves: the stuff of holy compost.
forgotten, lost, bodies uncollected,
sacrifices unsung, they lay
by the hundreds or thousands,
the residue of battles
and causes and ideas lost just as they,
like clouds scattered in wind.
their nerves and bones and flesh
have grown green in lumps
of moss or grass in rain and snow.
Copyright James Phoenix 2017