GONE FOR A SOLDIER

I can still see him here The kitchen shrunk too small to hold him

now that he had gone his way.

His uniform, that smells already

of smoke and mud,

portends disaster.

Khaki. The colour of November leaves.

Making him look paler, strange,

an unfamiliar mime of the boy he was.

In the middle of the room

Joking, arms dancing, flicking his ash,

And us, hanging onto his every word

each fearing they might be the last ones heard.

Mother's small, tight, grin.

Renie plays the piano,

thumping the keys, and we all join in.

Keeping the home fires burning,

and packing up our love in his new kit-bag

And smile, smile, smile.

Off to France, and proud he is to go.

Where brothers slay other girls' brothers

And sisters and mothers wait behind

for the bullet, they know, will kill them.

Knitting socks, sending parcels, crossing fingers.

Yet, for that last night

we still had him here,

In the middle of our kitchen

A new, grown-up, moustache,

his soldiers' cap skimmed to an empty chair

where later the cat would curl upon it. Crowing out his courage,

his boisterous bravery,

To a faithless, cruel, uncaring world.