04-11-2015, 06:00 PM
It was given as a gift, a simple thank you kiss.
Repeated many times, as they marched home from the lines.
A kiss of recognition, a kiss of gratitude,
for heroic acts of service,
for the way they had been used.
The disconnected story: how they walked the weary miles,
their bomb volume voices,
the sad brittle smiles,
and their hollow eyes that followed her,
as she offered salve for their minds.
Her Herbert was too young to serve in the trenches with a gun,
but when he turned nineteen,
clean up had just begun.
He was sent to dig up bodies
and walk among the bombs.
She had traced each trembling letter, strewn across the page,
of Herbert’s life in Flanders,
of the sacrifice he made.
She gave a kiss as a gift,
to men who might have seen her son.
Repeated many times, as they marched home from the lines.
A kiss of recognition, a kiss of gratitude,
for heroic acts of service,
for the way they had been used.
The disconnected story: how they walked the weary miles,
their bomb volume voices,
the sad brittle smiles,
and their hollow eyes that followed her,
as she offered salve for their minds.
Her Herbert was too young to serve in the trenches with a gun,
but when he turned nineteen,
clean up had just begun.
He was sent to dig up bodies
and walk among the bombs.
She had traced each trembling letter, strewn across the page,
of Herbert’s life in Flanders,
of the sacrifice he made.
She gave a kiss as a gift,
to men who might have seen her son.