It is time, now, for me to supervise his memory,
older than the soldier, contemplating the same departure,
the unreliable library of my life shelved in another’s
fragile skin, its walls only a bromide sketch.
In the dark (though light is threatening the deadlock
of night which brought us here) I see his face in those
of the soldiers marching, but it is for me I place
a paper poppy on the rain-wet stone of the cenotaph.