Somewhere On The Cabot Trail

On a bluff overlooking spruce and poplar

descending to the Gulf of St. Lawerence

in breath-giving beauty, a bronze plaque

Stating in large, shiny, permanent letters

the brassiest lie of all time—

that all we love and have to love,

including such as the sight below,

we owe to Canadian Service People

who died in foreign lands.

At least it might say, to be plausible,

‘who killed in foreign lands,’

since anyone thinking anything knows

that dying accomplishes nothing,

unless it  be done by a villain or fool,

and a dangerous one at that.

But no, in the face of God, we lie

and declare ourselves witless indelibly:

we cannot think, nor read, nor write,

cannot but mouth our demise.