Word travelled the veins of the red vine.
No cajoling
no cudgelling.
They gather in thousands
in tens of thousands
twice as many as last time
now, in the pitiless pelt of winter
almost as many as in the dragooning days
when they said only this
squeezed out a hundred thousand
to shiver along the route.
What they forgot
even then was how many had not forgotten
even then
the hideous cold of that black night
though their comrades may have been
too far gone in dying
to feel the impact of the freezing water on their martyred flesh.
Red wine punch by the road side
and fists in the rain
moving.
Vendors of carnations
red
do a roaring trade
and of little red booklets rather less
with a lot of roaring.
The flags above their heads -
red, and some
from the axed annexed republic
black red and gold with the curving arms of corn.
The flow slows
at the entry to the charmed circle.
From its centre the bleak rock juts -
DIE TOTEN MAHNEN UNS.
Starring out from it like megalithic petals
the wine-dark marble slabs.
Two together under the inscription
are awash with flowers
red -
carnations roses cyclamen.
Where the heap is highest
hands have burrowed down to the bare stone.
One word shines up -
ROSA.
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.