Out of the Wood
It is Dunkirk all over again
after the shambles, the rescue,
the touch of fairy dust
that, ending well, makes all seem well,
the benighted straggling out of the wood
with blessedly little memory
of the anguish of the night.
Only the unquiet ghosts
of those who did not emerge from the wood
walk, in their stead, through the partying crowds
demanding expiation.
Saying remember me.

David Callin

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  David Callin would be pleased to hear them.