Old Comrades Poem by Malcolm Evison

Wearing the anguish
of old age
like some military honour,
he follows the cortege.

He remembers the Somme,
and how his thoughts
had turned to the mill-girl
two doors down.

Sometimes the dream looms
larger than his life.
A smile emerges, creasing
his well-worn mask -

his sorrow smothered
by her freely-imaged warmth.
Flossie her name was,
now she's gone -

his death was living,
hers is snugly wrapped in wood.
He wears his grief with pride;
alone, misunderstood.