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Moderator: Mahalia

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Post by Mahalia » 29 Jul 2017, 12:57

Requiescat ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

It had been so quiet, the quietest of days
with the leaves barely rustling. Outside a haze
of mist lingered. Or was it mist? Maybe 'twas smoke ?
But she smelt nothing burning. It hung like a cloak.
She heard a faint rumbling - distant and far.
Was perhaps a storm brewing? Or was it a car
or a tractor traversing the quiet country lanes?
The blue sky was empty - she checked there for planes.

The empty house echoed , just memories lived there,
though she still came to visit - to sit in his chair
reading his secret journal - his scrawl on its pages,
recalling the nights spent alone as war rages.
Her memories bound in red ribbon reposed
in a trunk in the attic still full of his clothes
and the long withered petals of roses were pressed
between pages of letters he'd sent and addressed.

And he spoke only briefly of battles he'd fought,
of the nights full of anguish, of the peace that he sought.
How he craved to feel green grass once more 'tween his toes
and to see a swans flight as from water she rose.
He said they'd won the battle though seems lost the war
and he wondered what the hell they were fighting for,
front and centre 'gainst odds insurmountable - grim.
All that in the last letter that she had from him.

Written with a fountain pen with dark blue ink,
that she'd bought as a gift - so they'd maintain a link
whilst apart. And some pages were smudged with her tears
or perhaps they were his. Even brave men have fears.
She was old now, her skin thin like fine parchment paper,
her steps not so steady - at times they did waiver
a little when walking, but her heart was strong
and the heartache it held had been held for so long.

As the thorns and the thunder trembled in the gloom
her mind wandered off that Sunday afternoon
to a day now long gone - to a field out in France
where her lover lay silent. Where red poppies dance.
It had been so quiet, the quietest of days
with the leaves barely rustling. Outside in a haze
there were two lovers walking - with hands close entwined.
And the old house was silent as two souls were aligned.
The Scribbly Bark Poet
see some scribbles here -

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