Following on from yesterday's post about Wilfred Owen, I thought I would share a poem I wrote, which is inspired by the second half of his poem 'The Send Off' It explores what might happen to the soldiers, who are lucky enough to make it home. I hope you like it.
A
Soldier's Return
by Annie Bell
A
soldier came home from the battle,
War
weary, wild and worn right out.
He
walked the familiar homeward road.
His
pack weighed heavy;
His
heart weighed heavier.
Expectation
loomed,
Rearing
its ugly head;
Demanding
that he just return
And
rejoin that old life, from before.
He
no longer knew the old him.
A
ghost of a whisper;
A
memory – just a trace – flickered weakly
But
he knew that version of him
Had
died in the battle.
It
had drowned 'neath swathes of
Khaki,
spattered with sticky patterns of deepest red.
Approaching
the town of his birth,
His
queerly quiet return
Qualified
his invalidity.
There
were no parades.
No
church bells rang to announce him.
No
crowds cheered his safe return.
No-one
had even mustered a protest
To
jeer his flawed mission.
Instead,
a blank normality
Stared
blankly back at him
With
soulless, indifferent eyes.
She
stood on the doorstep,
Just
as he remembered her.
Her
eyes lit at the sight of his own.
She
had waited, longing for this moment.
He
had stared at her image
In
the darkest, muddy depths.
The
fantasy of the memory of her
Had
kept him alive.
They
were the lucky ones;
Reunited,
against the odds
But
all would not be as it seemed.
In
this façade of normality,
A
bitter edge browned the petals of their love.
He
wouldn't want to burden her.
She
wouldn't understand
How
he had changed;
How
his exuberance was no more;
How
love now seemed so transient.
His
naivete and optimism
Replaced
with harshest cynicism;
Replaced
with a worn out soul,
Who
no longer embraced profanities;
Who
saw life as the fleeting heartbeat that it was.
His
children would berate him.
His
wife would make half meant excuses.
“Oh,
he's just a cantankerous old bugger.”
He
would raise a lonely eyebrow.
His
pain would remain concealed within.
They
would never,
Could
never
Understand
his pain.
His
future children
And
his children's children
Would
never know him.
The
war had killed their father.
All
they would know was the implosive shell that remained.
©
Annie Bell 2013
