In The Aftermath Of A Death, There Is Life Poem by Mark Heathcote

In the aftermath of a death, there is life.
Bereavement shall pass like a dark cloud
here chinks of scarlet yellow will knife-
sharp bayonets at all those still endowed.

To live on and sadly to move on orphaned.
Inconsolably grieving heart grief-stricken.
Here the yoke of their eyes, ghostly almond--
shaped look on squinting after action.

Full of hope—yearn to build a new future
a cathedral or mosque and plough an old shire
in the aftermath of death, their eyes burr
with burning steel - skylines all might admire.

Theirs is the will of freedom won, hard-fought
by the grave seed called—forget-me-not.