November 8, 2015

 

 

Show me a tissue

Soaked in tears

From a grief stricken Mum

Who realised her fears.

 

She felt on the day

Her son left with his pack

He was gone forever

and wouldn’t be back.

 

Intuition had told her

Not to let her son go

But he was living his dream

His face had a glow.

 

Inside, her heart ached

As only a mother’s can

His dad said ‘Be proud,

He’ll come back a man.

 

Brave though he was,

And courageous and strong

She soon got the call

That proved her right all along.

 

Alas, no-one listened.

Now she cannot speak

As she mops up the tears

That fall to her cheek.

 

 

 

November 7, 2015

 

 

Don’t go back home, son.

Don’t go back home.

A lonely bed was too much,

into another’s arms she did roam.

Don’t go back home, son.

Don’t go back home.

 

Come and stay with me, son.

Come and stay with me.

There are now four children,

in the house where you left three.

Come and stay with me, son.

Come and stay with me.

 

Thank you for the offer, Mother.

Thank you for the offer.

But I need Molly by me,

at whatever the cost.

Without her I am nothing,

and so totally lost.

 

—-

 

Today I saw my Molly,

as I alighted from the tram.

She was holding hands with my sons,

and my daughter was pushing a pram!

 

In that second, time stopped.

I knew I needed to be,

back in the arms of

the only one for me.

 

—-

 

 

I’m now home for good, Molly.

I’m now home for good.

I’ll bring her up as my own.

Is that understood?

I’m now home for good, Molly.

I’m now home for good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 1, 2015

 

 

I lived with your heartache,

witnessing your every hidden tear.

Imagine how I felt when you told me,

that but for me, you wouldn’t be here?

 

I saw you distraught

and half out of your mind,

juggling with past demons

that wartime love left behind.

 

I saw you courageous

and putting on a show

worthy of an ‘Oscar’,

whilst thinking, ‘Why did I let him go?’

 

I felt part of a conspiracy,

not of my own doing,

and unable to get help, turned to

a lifetime of nail chewing.

 

Then good times would appear,

( I prayed him gone from your inner sight)

and the real trio we were part of,

at last, seemingly happy and bright.

 

But the pattern always the same,

as your temporary highs became lows.

The choice you made not the right one?

Something God alone only knows.

 

And so the years went by,

until I finally left,

hoping you two might get closer,

but you felt even more bereft.

 

Now I was far away,

but never guilt free,

as knowing you weren’t coping

was still getting to me.

 

By now your wartime love,

you had decided, must be DEAD!

And the urge, to live near me,

just wouldn’t leave your head.

 

So after pressure, I surrendered;

your idea having merit I could see,

and the most satisfactory conclusion,

I had to agree, that there could be.

 

And so we happily co-existed,

though your new life a far cry,

from familiar friends and faces, that with

heavy heart, you’d both waved goodbye.

 

But the shadow hanging over you

now gone, so life worth another try:

One totally oblivious, One no longer living a lie,

and the One they created – the glue in the pie!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘I could have loved him,

I really could’, she said to me

when the funeral over;

too late to turn back the clock.

 

‘It could have been so different,

it really could’, she said to me;

though the words meant for herself,

as if to berate – her anger to unlock.

 

‘I was a fool to myself,

I really was’, she said to me;

as if I didn’t know, her first love,

she’d mentally never let go.

 

‘I’ve seen your heart breaking,

I really have’, I said to her;

knowing that private part of her mind,

that still filled her with woe.

 

‘I really loved him,

I really did’, she said to me

now it mattered not;

the one in the way, in that bond of three.

 

‘I could have had him,

I really could’, she said to me,

‘but he wasn’t free, and the guilt too much,

so I declined his plea’.

 

I often think I’ll find him,

I really do, I say to myself,

when curiosity calls;

I feel I already know him, after all.

 

I wonder if he’s still alive,

I really do, I muse to myself.

That guy who wrecked our lives;

his presence an irritant, a shadow tall.

 

‘You shouldn’t have told me,

you really shouldn’t’, I said to her’

‘I love you both equally;

it just wasn’t fair’.

 

‘It made me think you’d wished

I wasn’t here’, I said to her,

‘and like the one you chose,

we both lived in despair’.

 

‘I know you told him,

I really do’, she said to me.

Aghast, I denied it; ‘I would never hurt

the one who loved you, so true,

 

who scratched his head

but stuck by you,

through good times and bad,

never having a clue’.

 

Then ten years passed with no mention,

of her war-time soldier at all !

Happy times in her marriage,

instead she chose to recall !

 

It seems a lifetime away

now I sit here and recall.

One forever oblivious: One a shadow tall;

and the one we all loved – our very own screwball.

 

By Harriet Blackbury.

 

 

October 7, 2015

 

 

And now her mind

drifts off to sea,

we are left with life

as it used to be.

 

‘Her steak pie suppers,

with that touch of finesse;

too full for more, but

plum pudding, nevertheless’.

 

And now her eyes

little sight can see,

Her touch so vital;

how I envy her dignity.

 

Her manicured fingers

gripping a warm tea cup,

though quite what to do with it –

Chaos could erupt?

 

Last weeks contents, she

poured into the sugar bowl,

when our eyes, for a moment

went on a stroll.

 

Cubes bobbed up and down

and glistened away;

she joined in the laughter,

that saved the day.

 

And now she is ready

for her pre-lunch nap.

Our cue to rise,

and gather coat and cap.

 

She opens her eyes

as we reach the door.

We are now but a blur,

so she closes them once more. 

 

 

 

October 6, 2015

 

 

The house is still standing;

I drove passed, only last year,

and wondered if my forgotten copy

of ‘The Water Babies’ was still in the loft.

 

The nightmare is still in there.

I remember the chair by the sideboard,

where I sat in despair; unable to focus,

too bewildered to care.

 

The past is still in there,

wrapped up in cobwebs, individually rare.

The house abandoned at speed

when bombshells fell out of night air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t see them as ancient,

for their hand is outstretched.

Warmth still lives in their hearts,

though ‘time’ faintly sketched.

 

Don’t see them as lost

for they’ve found a way,

to cope with their lot;

every day’s a new day.

 

Take from them their knowledge;

be glad of their listening ear.

Treasure each moment spent,

whilst you still have them here. 

 

 

 

 

She always preferred sitting on the floor,

as she liked to be near to her animals,

and they weren’t allowed on the furniture.

 

 

 

September 24, 2015

 

 

I watch my glady’s

hour by hour.

Every year they grow

but they never flower.

 

Their lanky leaves a mess;

a victim of the storm.

I wait impatiently

for just one flower to form

 

But as autumn nears

I fear they’re for the chop

Another barren season;

another flowerless crop.

 

Though out in the countryside,

with seemingly effortless toil,

they grow in vast abundance!

It must be the Cotswold soil?

 

In shades of red and white,

and purple, pink and blue,

they sit in buckets outside

the growers house, on view.

 

He must know what he’s doing,

but when I pass, I sigh,

as he also grows sunflowers

that nearly touch the sky.

 

 

 

August 1, 2015

 

 

In the stillness of the night,

as I slept the deepest sleep

I was suddenly awakened and

so scared that I did weep.

 

A song revived lost memories,

transporting me back in time,

by creating a vivid picture,

so perfect, in detail and rhyme.

 

I shook as the dream started fading,

and the music, no more, could I hear.

I had seen you with so much clarity,

and felt so moved that you chose to appear.

 

 

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