Anniversary

An eye, brimful, on a dusty road 'neath scudding clouds,
but no figure crests the hill.
A rose, long dead, rusted petals on the telegram,
its edges black, it lies there still.
She'd had no need to open it,
for she knew its message in her heart.
This day, that day, e'er the same,
yet so many years apart.
A sound; she turns and wipes away the tears,
Her handsome boy, fatherless these eleven years,
And she smiles, as his son banishes her fears.