Sunlight dances on bleached beaches.
We remember a time
when men were killed in their pursuit.
Penned in small coves they fell
over fallen comrades like sacrificial lambs.
Crowds bow their heads
shedding tears for their forebears,
disconnected lines on the family tree;
branches cut before flowering.
Young men, straight and tall
mark the passing of those lives against their own
and thank some unknown presence,
call it God, call it luck,
that they were not here a hundred years ago