… of the eleventh day of the eleventh month,
at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them
The sun is hidden, undecided; / The clouds torment the trees, / Thunder lurks, loose, yet undivided / By the faintest breath of breeze.
The coming storm is longed for, hoped for / To ease the electric atmosphere, / There is no time now to stop the downpour, / Let it come, yet still I fear.
Long streaks of light create a chaos, / Rivers swell and oceans roar. / Death, destruction, killing, fire, / The earth is shaken to the core.
Filled with dread, yet never doubting, / This terror comes in the murk of night. / But after night will come a dawning / Of beauty – breathless, fresh and white.
John A MacFarlane