The Bronze Soldier

The rain ran like a veil from the peak of his bronze cap.

His face did not seem stern; just...young.
I could discern no animation in his expression.
The sculptor, crafted no madness,
no determination, no sorrow;
only innocence!

He stood at ease, his rifle
held loosely away from him,
as he looked into the distance.
I found myself following his gaze.

He stared out to sea, toward Dover's white walls;
at his feet, had been placed a wreath of red poppies.

The angry waves exploded all around.
Amidst the screeching of the gulls,
I chanced I heard a whistle blow...