Deep Down Lost Feeling 1916 Poem by Terry Collett

Polly polishes
George's room
as Gripe had told her.

Rubs the polish cloth
over the sideboard
into a bright shine.

Polish smell;
sniffs it;
sniffs the cloth.

Rubs again,
another surface.

The window is open;
fresh air enters,
blows curtains inwards.

She hears birdsong
from outside.

She pauses polishing;
goes to the window
and peers out.

Wonders where
George is.

How he is doing
in that hospital
with shell-shock.

Across the Channel
war is on.

Men being killed;
men driven mad
with sight seen.

George said about
seeing a head gazing
at him on trench top.

She bites her lip;
wishes he
was back home.

The Master's son;
she a maid.

He and she making love
in his bed that last time.

Wants it again;
warm in his bed;
him kissing her.

His moustache tickling
her to giggles,
shafting her
to a seventh heaven.

She walks back
to the bed
and lies down.

Imagines him there;
knows he is not,
just lies and stares
at the ceiling
with that deep down
lost feeling.