When visiting war graves on Crete, we were told that relatively few soldiers were buried there. But it still seemed a lot.
The bush-flecked Cretan slopes
Surround the glistening graveyard,
Where pale monuments salute in rows
Those heroes felled in war.
The repeated remorse of pointless loss
Laid out in military symmetry.
As sadness mounts, we seek consolation
In the information that
Only Eight Hundred are here.
Only Eight Hundred bodies, bloodied remains
Of former babies.
Only Eight Hundred sets of nappies to change
Rattles to return.
Only Eight Hundred first days at school
Letters to learn.
Only Eight Hundred birthday celebrations
Christmas present givings.
Only Eight Hundred sports days to attend,
Victories to applaud.
Only Eight Hundred first trips to take,
New horizons to widen.
Only Eight Hundred final exams to sit,
Life’s lessons to accept.
Only Eight Hundred stolen kisses, first dates,
Broken hearts.
Only Eight Hundred careers discussed, planned,
Then cancelled for the cause.
Only Eight Hundred young lives crushed,
Only Eight Hundred sets of parents grieving,
Only Eight Hundred partners ripped apart,
Left loveless and alone.
Winners, losers, merged in death,
Paying the price of peace.
Did you say Only Eight Hundred?
Seems a lot to me.
How many other war graves are there?
