A letter from the war …

They lived through war,
and didn’t want
to talk about it any more;
so we, their children knew much less
about the suffering and the mess,
until much later on.
They didn’t like the films galore
that told the tale with too much glamour,
but reality was all too near
for them to talk about, for us to hear,
they thought;

but later, after Dad had died,
I learnt a little
of what had been denied:
‘Have you seen this letter?’,
my mother asked:
my father’s writing,
(thin war-issue paper, browning –
ink fading) from the past,
words he’d written
to his betrothed,
on ship returning,
– at last
it could be told –
the where and what
had censored been
but now
he let it flow,
long hours to fill,
and so she’d know,
a little of what he’d done and seen,
and he himself could now review, remember
report, record.
This young man writing,
had been my age
before he was my father,
now passed on, long gone.

** ** ** **

The hanging round,
‘When will we go?’
– rumours abound,
waiting, waiting, until,
suddenly, the ‘gen’ was ‘pukka’,
hectic preparations, packed
off to port, and on the tender,
ferried over to the liner –
“Overseas Tour” begun,
boat journey long
horizon-sight of dim Welsh hills,
salt-water baths, emergency drills,
‘hiraeth’* drowned out by excitement,
wondering thought …
and cheap tobacco, quizzes, sport
– organised busyness, with intent
monotonous boredom to prevent,
(watching the sea go by, more sea),
travelling further, getting warmer,
swimming pool, and spelling bee,
whist, then chess, more chess – a craze:

“Look, Africa!” a gasp and gaze;
chess partner with his full attention
on his gripping game, absorption –
“Ah, yes, Whose move?”

to be continued, probably

* hiraeth pronounced hi-r-I-th ('hi' as in him)('th' soft, as in thank)
meaning: homesickness, longing, appreciation of what is at present lost