11/11/2026
He stood before the cenotaph,
His medals on his chest,
And bowed his silver head to those
Who never came to rest.
But in the hush, beyond the names
Cut deep into the stone,
He thought about a chestnut horse
Who brought him back alone.
He’d fallen forward in the saddle,
Too weak to hold the rein;
His fingers tangled in the mane,
His tunic dark with rain.
He could not see the road ahead,
Nor tell which way to turn.
The horse had carried on through smoke
Where shattered wagons burned.
He felt each stumbling, stubborn step,
Each breath beneath his knee,
And whispered to those listening ears,
“Don’t leave me here. Please, carry me.”
The horse had reached the shelter
Where hands could lift him clear.
He’d tried to ask them, “Is he safe?”
But no one seemed to hear.
They moved him with the wounded.
He never learned just where
They took the tired chestnut horse
He’d left behind him there.
He lived to hold his children,
To watch their children grow,
To walk beside his wife for years
That horse would never know.
Now, standing in the morning frost,
He brushed his cheek and sighed.
For just a moment, through the mist,
His friend stood at his side.
“I never got to thank you.
They took me far away.
But every year I’ve stood here,
I’ve had these words to say:
“You gave me all those mornings,
The life I came home to.
And though your name’s not on this stone,
I come here, too, for you.”
