Each year, for one night,Mists part in that great field-
Exposing an ascending mound
Littered, yet ordered,
With tattooed markers of Death.
Bodies draped with uniforms,
Spanning modern eras and geographies,
Rise from their damp vestibules,
Then float a ways, one into another,
Exchanging greetings bereft of malice.
Thunderous conversations rasp
Across the night’s abyss, succumbing as
Ricocheting spasms of dawn flare,
Accompanied by invisible trumpets
Sounding Taps, rather than Reveille…
The pasture resumes a lolling flatness,
No remains of Phantom Hill
Or the denizens of Death’s City
Remain in view- replaced anon by
Unmarked cows grazing unmarked graves.