Beating Retreat
(For: Gordon ‘Mac’ McDonald)
(RIP 31/3/1985: aet 21)
At the Beating of Retreat, (as another name is writ
In the Roll Call of the Lost and the Western sun declines
Below the stark horizon and is hidden from our eyes
To sounds of solemn music and the rhythms of deep drums),
Our minds revert to memories of those whom we have known
But who no longer share with us the comradeship of life.
‘Mac’ was full of youthful promise, (now not to be fulfilled
Since the number of his years has been rolled upon the dice
Of fateful Destiny), so he, perforce, has early passed
The one-way door from this life into unremitting death.
There, in that narrow anteroom which we here call the grave,
He now must doff the pleasant uniform of flesh and thought
By which he is remembered on this side of that divide,
And he must don another dress his friends won’t recognise.
Now, as the Last Post fades away into the deeping dark,
So his bright presence beats retreat into our memories
And he must wait, throughout that night which is the length of death,
Until there dawns that fresh new day on which, he hoped, we shall
Be reunited once again — as in our senses sound
The notes of Resurrection’s Reveille — in happiness;
For surely he believed that such a future lies beyond
That dreaded door we all must pass when our last days are done
And fading consciousnesses hear the final ‘Last Post’ sound that speeds
Us, (as we make our stiff salutes), at our own indubious ‘Retreats’.