Our small New England town buried a son yesterday, <br />A young soldier killed on duty in Afghanistan. <br />It was our first casualty in struggles far away <br />But, as it had proved, not sufficiently removed. <br /> <br />At the church service, his brother recalled <br />How he was tough, but with children gentle <br />As a butterfly. ‘Now I won’t worry any more, ’ <br />His mother wept. ‘He is safe now.’ <br /> <br />The funeral procession made its somber way <br />Under skies gunmetal gray and threatening rain. <br />Hand-drawn tributes to “our hero” lined the route, <br />And small flags provided by the VFW. <br /> <br />The young soldier was buried with military honors <br />In the town cemetery, the governor present, <br />And a presidential hopeful not unmindful of <br />Where the nation’s first primary is held. <br /> <br />The paper gave its native son front-page coverage <br />Complete with photos of his young, round face, <br />Smiling beneath his helmet, a cheerful tourist <br />In a strange and sandy land. <br /> <br />The story recalled the young man’s skill at sports, <br />And mentioned high school records still left standing. <br />He enlisted out of school, it said, and saw duty <br />In South Korea, Iraq and Afghanistan. <br /> <br />In his last posting, he led a sniper team. <br />He saw action, killed. And half a world away <br />Other villages mourn sons and daughters <br />Lost to his unerring eye.<br /><br />Chuck Toll<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/native-son/
