Heroism

By Matthew Parish

It comes to us in photographs, not noise:

A man half-turned, his coat blown by the blast,

A street where winter lies among the toys

Left by children who have long since passed.

We think of courage as a shouted thing:

The lifted flag, the surge towards the fire.

But mostly it is waiting; listening

To the slow tick of someone else’s desire.

The papers make it tidy, as they must.

Dates, numbers, honours. Nothing of the fear

That settles in the boots, or in the dust

Which men breathe in because they must be here.

And yet—there is a steadiness in grief,

A kind of tired love that keeps them on,

As though the only answer to belief

Is doing what must still be done.

Perhaps that’s all heroism is: a choice

Made quietly, when nobody will cheer.

A shaken hand; a soft, unremarked voice

Saying: I stayed. I am still here.