Second Wave

Autumn is here, the chill has returned. 

Memories come back of spring,

when the virus took to its wings.

They protest, they march.

with sticks, stones, candles and torch.

Their drums drown the sound 

of people beating their breasts over dead loved ones.

The breeze lifts and flutters the abandoned veils

in the leaden sky, the standard on the arriving sail.

After a lull here comes the second wave;

frothing at the mouth the wave rushes in,

the boots impatient come marching in,

with both hands sweeps and takes the bodies in. 

The warnings have faded, memories on sands erased.

Far away the ocean gurgles, the wave readies to lash once again.