This War Ended 1916 Poem by Terry Collett

Each day I come
to Master George's room,
each day, Gripe says,
Polly keep it fresh
just in case.

As soon as
I open the door
I feel a shudder.

I fear he will not return,
that he will remain
in hospital of some kind
for ever, his mind shattered
by this War,
by what he saw,
his wounded mind.

I read that 19,240 men
were killed on the first day
of the Somme,
and 57,470 wounded,
of which he was one.

When will this War be over,
when will it be won?

I walk around
to the window,
and open it up.

Let air in,
refresh the room.

The curtains flap
in the incoming draft,
like wings of a bird
taking off in flight.

I begin to polish
the furniture, even though
I did it yesterday,
and the day before.

I smell him around me,
his scent, his shaving soap,
his having been here.

I look at the bed,
and remember how
we made love there
at his invitation,
me a maid, and he
the young master.

I put down the polish
and duster, and go
and sit on the bed,
bounce it a little.

I stare out at the view
of the window.

Trees sway, birds fly,
clouds drift by.

He kissed each
aspect of me,
kisses everywhere,
his lips there,
and his moustache
tickling me to giggles.

Now he is broken,
mind fragile as aged paper.

When he came
back here briefly,
he spoke of a man's head
sitting by his side
gazing at him,
a hand of one man
lying still on the trench
by his eyes.

I close my eyes,
and want him back,
back here, back mended,
and this War ended.