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November 1, 2015

 

 

‘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.

 

 

 

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