Out of the Wood
It is Dunkirk all over again –
after the shambles, the rescue,
the touch of fairy dust
that, ending well, makes all seem well,
the benighted straggling out of the wood
with blessedly little memory
of the anguish of the night.
Only the unquiet ghosts
of those who did not emerge from the wood
walk, in their stead, through the partying crowds
Saying remember me.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be
pleased to hear them.