At the National Cenotaph

It is a mean, miserably
inclement day to remain
at proud attention outdoors
before the national memorial.
Nature lashing the grieving
respectful in a blizzard of snow
propelled by a wicked wind.
As though even she,
particularly the creator of all,
feels herself aggrieved by
how her creatures foul one
another and perhaps even 
her expectations; that we
clever, yet obviously dim and
oblivious creatures are incapable
of harnessing the bitter wind
we harbour within, to extend
instead to one another patience
and acceptance so there
would be no need of such
grievous ceremonies
honouring the sacrifice of
the fallen and the courage of
the weeping old warriors.