Fifty Years

A pillbox hat, a suit of pink,
The blood and all the tears;
That small salute, so solemn –
Is it really fifty years?

A swearing-in, a widow’s face
Behind a netted veil;
The coffin in a hearse and then
The bugle’s lonely wail.

The anniversary today
Demands that we take note
Of innocence and what was lost
In times that seem remote.