With Remembrance Day approaching I wanted to reflect back on a generation that experienced the true meaning of bravery.
I sit down on the floral settee with her
And ask her about him, Our hero.
She smiles at the gas fireplace,
His portrait gazes back from a distant office party,
That dark suit, that warm smile and that dimple.
He was a gentle Quaker and had been a young chorister,
His books and music still on the shelves.
A young man he battled the internal war between Pacifism and Justice.
He said that to watch and not to help
Would be a far greater sin.
The sepia tones still curl around his frame as he stands
Slender against the dusty civilian backdrop,
A comrade at his side,
Boys squinting into the lens,
Cigarettes comforting their shaken nerves.
She says he didn’t like to talk about the days before the party.
About how someone stole his sight,
And the bed in the Italian infirmary,
Where uncertainty played on his mind,
Not knowing whether the darkness could give way to the light.
The bandages fell and the office reopened,
Men now in suits with meetings and nightmares,
He would later talk quietly to Dad about the conflict and the struggle,
Not wishing to unsettle his domestic bubble,
He moved on with his life and left the darkness alone.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
Photo from Photobucket
