TheBanyanTree: Just a little sigh

[John Bailey]

Saturday March 29, 2003

JUST A LITTLE SIGH

Lump in the throat day. The first twenty coffins containing British 
soldiers, sailors and airmen killed in the war in Iraq were flown home to 
RAF Brize Norton and unloaded one by one with full solemn ceremony to the 
slow, sad sounds of Handel. Their families, dressed in their best and with 
the strains of grief written large upon them, were there to take them home. 
There was much gold braid in the small gathering, too, and salutes were 
given from the great and the mighty in honour of the fallen. It was a 
bright sunny morning, and calm, and that was a blessing. Even so, the chill 
wind that blows across any airfield lifted the flaps of coats and uniforms. 
There must have been an equal chill in the hearts of those who have lost 
people dear to them.

Their are few mournings quite like this, where pride mixes with tears; and 
few of us know the way to deal with them. That's fine. In such 
circumstances the confusion of the human state is as honourable as any 
other expression of grief.

I snapped off the TV as the sequence ended, and had a quiet sigh all to 
myself. Outside the branchs and budding twigs of the oak tree stretched 
across the sunny sky, and spring birds sang in them.  A magpie, glossy and 
sleek, gathered beaksful of moss from the branches, to be carried off to a 
nest somewhere close by. Some mossy tufts and brittle pieces of bark fell 
to the ground below, to be siezed by smaller birds just as anxious for good 
quality nesting material. Later in the day Graham came along with his mower 
and distributed the remainder as a mulch over the grass.

So, just as it should, life goes on. Plans are finalised, paint cans and 
brushes lined up, and the cheerful clatter of harmless domestic activities 
continues. Just as it should.  All right and proper. No harm in it so long 
as we reserve that precious moment to stand quietly and, when appropriate, 
give a little sigh for those who are no longer here, who can no longer join 
in the fun.



--
John Bailey   Carmarthenshire, Wales
journal of a writing man
<http://www.oldgreypoet.com>