He came to me from somewhere fine.

Perhaps a Georgian home, white pillared front

that overlooked a quiet tree fringed square,

where children ran in ancient noisy games

and nannies in light gray, wheeled stately prams.

He came to me, smart, in his uniform.

Pale and distant, hollow eyed, deep set, sad.

Unwilling to share horrors he had seen.

Yet boy young, innocent of carnal love

and clumsy in his time of urgent need.

 

He came to me from stinking fear filled war,

and with it all so weary and alone.

No one to understand the terror’s scars

no one to hold him close and croon his name.

He saw me, knew that I was there for him.

Shy glance, eyes down he gently took my hand,

then let me guide him to my shabby place.

He came in silence, shaking sweaty palm,

I helped him hold his fears just for a while.

 

He saw me in the flickering gas firelight.

Fed with a penny soon the cheerful glow

banished harsh shadows from my simple room.

Our young skins shone palely in its loom.

Gently we shared the warmth of human love.

Then when dawn came to lighten slate rooftops,

the quiet sounds, milk bottles on stone steps.

I woke to look in wonder at this boy.

His face at peace against my naked breast;

while tears fled my eyes to damp a pillow;

the stress was gone and in its place was rest.

 

In time his letter came and my hand shook.

I dared not open it, though knew I must.

For in my heart I sensed that he would not

return to let me hold him close again.

Written before going into battle.

In case of death upon that killing field,

he wrote in thanks for our short time together.

The peace that now was his, instead of fear.

 
 
David Garlick, Victoria, March, 1995