Lost Soldier

by Diane Graebner

The wild wolves were howling against the strong wind;

Not a single soul came and rounded the bend.

Near a tiny patch of grass,

Where the army had once come to pass,

Lying wounded on the ground,

Lay a poor lame soldier - who made not a sound

Near where the grass had been burned by a fire

Where still the smoke rose, drifting higher and higher.

There he lay, next to the ashes on the ground

Where there wasn't a movement, a breath or a sound

'Cept the wild wolves howling against the wind,

Not a single soul came and rounded the bend.

"Arlington Cannon"

by Diane Graebner