I've had this idea for a while, but I've only just managed to put it on paper(or on screen, to be truthful). Thank you to anyone who reads this.
Your Wife at Home
It's the not knowing that's hard to bear, darling,
My mind running rings around me as I sip my shivering tea and think of you-
The wondering, wandering,
The throwing up thoughts of what might
Or might not be true,
I want you smiling in the starlight,
Grinning over poker with the lads,
Glancing at your cards and winking to your mate because you know you have the better hand.
Furrowing your brow and feigning a frown, then laughing as you flaunt a royal flush.
This is how I see you: shiny-eyed and happy.
Like your letters promised you are:
"Be back by Christmas, back home soon,"
I hope that's true.
It's dark outside, the stars are dim,
Are you sleeping now?
Or do you lie awake and gaze at the moon, like we once did,
Before wedding or war,
Arms above our heads as the buttercups giggled at us young lovers,
Planning our dreams and dreaming our plans,
Of holidays and happiness and a home of our own,
Maybe have a bairn or two to keep thing lively,
(At least, as you joked, we would have fun trying)
But the two of us would be enough,
Misty-eyed as we lay close,
Numb to the cold, wrapped up in love,
Back when the world was sunshine,
Back when you were mine.
Are they taking care of you?
Does your uniform fit?
Do the meals still taste, as you wrote, "like shit"?
Will you let you home to see our boy?
Will you get to see him outside of my belly?
Will he look like you when he bursts into life?
Will he have your blue eyes, or that daft grin,
That pulled me in and made me your wife?
Or perhaps they'll hold you a little longer.
Perhaps they aren't quite done with you,
Or maybe they won't send you home full,
Will you leave a limb on the front line?
Or come home without coming home,
Bringing the war back with you,
The gunfires and screams scribbling over you,
And our jewelled dreams.
Why don't you write?
Is the fighting getting worse?
Is Hell seeping through your skull?
Has hope taken its leave?
Are you lonely? Are you frightened?
Have you forgotten me?
Have they hurt you?
Is there a bloody hole through the letter in your pocket, through the heart,
Your heart, my heart,
Is death oozing through your shirt-
The shirt they make you wear-
Or are you smooth and holeless,
But wounded where the doctors can't cure you?
Are you dead in a ditch somewhere?
Are you dead with only a picture left behind for me,
Gone without even a wreath to say I loved you,
Just a corpse, nameless and cold and abandoned in the dirt,
Gone to Heaven where bullets and bombs can't hurt you,
Deserted in the mud: Is that all that's left of you?
Did the angels want you, too?
Will you return as you were sent, smiling and golden?
Or will you be a shell,
Half empty, or half full,
Or fully empty, a toy soldier in a wooden box,
A charred action figure,
Patched up like a teddy,
Too young, not ready to go,
Not old enough to lower to a dark, damp grave,
For me to plant poppies for.
And wish my love could save you.
It's dark outside, the stars are gone,
I drink my tea in the dark, alone,
I beg the Lord to bring you home,
I ponder, wandering 'cross the floor,
I pray, I pour, I watch the door,
I wait, and wait, and wait.