A boy stands, the light glinting
on a trumpet
clutched in his hands.
Behind, Father holds
his son’s small shoulders.

A voice sounds their names, one by one
each age pondered over
a sad reminder
of the hopes of a village
gone.

The voice stops
and boy raises trumpet.
We wait.
Two notes tremble out, followed
thoughtfully by two more.

The notes hold us still in the frosty air,
and leave an echo
to bow our heads to.
We stand
in silence.

Broken only by rustling leaves
and the bustle of engines, and shouts –
Move back there!
We can’t go anywhere!
We stand firm and shut them out

While our memories tremble
on the trumpet’s echo
and drift around
like the leaves that fall
and lie on the ground.