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I am sat at home, off work, with an ear and throat infection. A visit to the doctors confirmed this yesterday and I am currently on a course of antibiotics with the advice of needed rest and fluids. I’ve been in a bit of pain – but have enjoyed laying on the sofa, having a good nosey around your blogs today – and having left a few comments here and there, thought I’d even write another one of my own.

Last year I bought a beautiful handmade and printed notebook – especially for writing notes, thoughts and poetry in response to old images that I had. I’d like to share one such photograph of mine, that I sello-taped into this book – and my subsequent scribblings and inspirations for a poem.

This image made me think of a story, told to me by my dad, about a lady who lived in his village when he was a boy. Her only child, a son, went off to serve in the second world war – but was never to return. His body was never identified – and so, deep down, she believed that he was still alive somewhere, possibly wounded – but sure to return home one day to her.

For the rest of her life, it was said, she waited daily at her gate – looking up and down the lane – silently waiting for his safe return. She did this everyday until, eventually, she died of a broken heart. This image and this story inspired me to write this poem today, whilst recovering.

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Five long mournful winters lay, wrapped and bowed, unaware of sadness

No vision to touch, yet a man in battle, landscaped & lost

They say he’s breathless…

…I’ll never believe

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A mother’s tears will never dry

I stand and wait, helpless -

and I mourn – as only a mother can

whilst unknown brides rest, heavy, with uplifting smile and travelled dreams

  anticipating their unveil and unborn

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Sometimes grief strips me of your wanted voice & gentleness of hand

but then I stand – and wait – and listen – and believe

and only then I hear – I feel – and I see

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Lord, guide his spirit safely home to me…

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