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A Silent Chorus of Anguish

As  the  storm  of  war  blew  itself  out,
crowds  of  widows  hurried  along  the  rural  road
to  the  local  train  station.
They  came  to  meet  their  husbands
due  to  be  back  home  from  war,
even  if  only  in  their  wives’  hopes  and  dreams.

Crowds  of  widows   are  at  the  train  station,
on   sun-hazed   September  afternoons,
on   frozen   December  evenings,
on   singing   April  mornings,
on   burning   August  days.

Decades  passed.
The  sun  beats  down
on  the  old  widows’  sticks  and  crooks –
and  wrinkly  hands   still  waving  to  the  trains.

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