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.
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
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
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
Lord, guide his spirit safely home to me…