Dusk falls on a mild day, golden,
light slanting through thinning leaves,
and we listen to the millions of whispered voices
that will never be silent.
They have no use for bowed heads,
for remembrance speeches,
promises of peace and love,
nor heroic flag-waving and solemn music.
I hear tears and anger flowing
in the stream-music,
the crow and jay squabble,
and when the robin sings,
I hear those millions call,
This is what was stolen, not given,
the gold and silver of the years,
a child, watching it grow,
the sweetness of a quiet evening.