On the Insetting of the Memorial Window

There where you are lying
In that quiet place
With the brown clay dyeing
Your rain-stained face,
Does the poppies' laughter
Above your head
Stir an echo after
The soul is fled?
Does the South wind falling
Forget to tell What the
Trade winds calling
Have told full well,
From a land whence bearing
The troth you sung
You went way-faring
When Time was young?
Do the grasses whisper
That overseas
The winds at vesper
Ask "who were these
To whom they limn glasses
In purple and red"?
Afar the voice passes
Unheard. You are dead.

R.F.F.