Ostroh, Ukraine

Down the sides of the street are the memorials.

Triangular columns, the height of a man, each side

a photograph of someone’s son, or daughter.

They’re harvested from albums, mobile phones,

picture frames from walls or shelves, and from

The battlefield. A street of smiles, and poses –

Some with held-high weapons, most in army gear,

all vulnerable with confidence. At their feet and sides

the flags of Country, Regiment, bouquets of flowers,

immortal in their everlasting blues and yellows,

and in reds of love. Sometimes a crowd gathers,

or the passer pauses to engage a date – the birth,

the day of death, the place. All that invincibility draining

into space and hope. And time and traffic passes.

Eyemouth, Berwickshire

It’s perpetual summer in our Borders’ fishing town.

No one has come to take away the flowers of youth

[to coin a phrase]. On the lampposts, memories of

Salmon Queens that stretch back into the pageants

of the past. Girls whose glamour has been decked

with showy gowns and sashes, now fading into

age, and local paper cuttings yellowing in drawers.

Hold them all, world. Cradle your sons,

Your daughters. Do not give them up.