ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

THE WAIT

He was in the desert when the news came.
In Palestine, waiting to go home.

He'd bought him five woodbines
The last time he had seen him,
Walking to the railway station.

That was the start of it for him.
His father hadn't waved him off,
Wouldn't come onto the platform.
Perhaps he could not face saying
Goodbye.

The First World Wars' realities
Were no stranger to him.
Perhaps he could not bear
Knowing. Perhaps.

When the news came,
They gave him permission to go home,
Compassionate leave.
He packed up his kit bag
Emptied the sand from his boots
And waited.
Waited for a flight home.

Then, something changed, orders changed,
The compassionate leave was cancelled.
And the officer said:
"Sorry old man but it can't be done.
Your father's already dead anyway.
Nothing you could have done."

And there was nothing he could do.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.