Each name shouted into history
echoes, echoes, returning as
a whisper. Each fades into the white
noise of time, and we ask,
What was that? Did you hear
something? A wind, perhaps, to carry
today away, carry us
toward tomorrow and our own echoes.
Only wind, blowing through
the trees, up there on the ridge.
We can go across it tomorrow
and shout into the valley beyond.
Stephen Brooke ©2019
thrown off quickly and entirely likely to be revised