That Day in Spring

For a decade after you, I avoided sleep
afraid to dream for fear of dreams of you.
That sideways boyish grin, those eyes so deep
that looked at me as if you wanted me to do
what I did that day in Spring.

For ten years I turned it round and round
but never found a way to grip it right
never found a way to shake the sound
or sight, your half laugh, half sigh, so contrite
with what I did that day in Spring

And if, so long ago, it had been turned around
and the grenade at your feet failed to report,
failed to fling your lifeless body to the ground
would you have counted out the seconds, then resort
to what I did that day in Spring.

And now, a decade later, ten years with little rest
I at last looked past what my sight so firmly framed
and saw the way you gripped your bleeding chest
how the smile was gone and then you seemed ashamed
for what I had to do that day in Spring.

Ten years ago, ten thousand miles away
when the whole war fell upon a single hill
you lobbed an instant death that went astray
and laughed into the silence, laughed until
what I did that day in Spring.

And now, ten years too late, I raise a toast
for we were but boys in war with different ties
that bound us to each other: man and ghost
and left a laugh amongst the hills and lies
that tell the story of that day in Spring.