Remembrance on Independence Day
by
Edward Byrne


           I

Dark smoke rose from charred
          upper floors of a factory farther

on shore. Only a night before,
          the squads of soldiers had closed

the port, secured those old boats
          moored along the wharf, fragile

cargo warming all morning long
          under a scorching summer sun.


           II

When my father and I viewed
          the shooting through field glasses,

we counted a couple of dead
          on the dock--pockets searched

at first, arms and legs bound,
          then their bodies lifted, tossed

to the sea and lost to sight, one
          black shoe bobbing like a buoy.


           III

For more than a week we said
          little to each other, told nobody

else about what we had seen.
          We knew we were only visitors,

just stopping off for a few days,
          making our way to Morocco--

nothing but tourists, sightseers
          drawn to odd places of interest.


           IV

Even today, though thirty years
          later, as a small gray cloud hovers

above the picnic charcoal pit,
          where my son and I are grilling

our holiday dinner, I still think
          of that July when the two distant

figures disappeared, slid beneath
          rising waters of an afternoon tide.

Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.

Want to comment on this poem? Click Here to go the Literary Review Discussion Forum (for the subject, enter "Comment on poem Remembrance On Independence Day")