Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Two Wars Rage

16th January 2009, A. Palmer

Two wars rage:
One in sand.
And one in her heart.

The second war is by far the worse.
Worse than shells of metal leaving shells of life.
No objection to the strife of the first,
But it is worse nonetheless to be a wife.

She stands with an iron, as grey as the walls outside a window.
It’s cold today but her heart burns.
The clouds move clumsily, tumbling and sucking sky as though
They want to cry for her in turns.

The television tells of another fallen with a sobriety respectful, but removed and preened.
Pictures flicker in the face of Grace of a box draped in Jack’s colours: blue, white and red.
She lurches for the Off button, frantic for Grace not to see such scenes.
But Grace doesn’t see; Grace fingers with heart-breaking ignorance the toys Daddy brought with him the last time instead.

She stares at the clock for the third time in nine minutes,
Noting how that first second takes an age to land.
She wills it never to arrive, to retreat, implores for Time to remit.
Her heart skips. Then so does the hand.

She bites her lip to suppress the tears and glances down at Grace.
Like intuition, Grace is already looking at her with a comfort in her eyes beyond her years.
Those eyes! They barrack a smile that evokes a sudden embrace
And glint with a softened masculinity and a warmth to effortlessly ward off fears.

She has seen those eyes a thousand times’ before in another’s sockets.
She has rejoiced in those eyes, wept at those eyes too,
And struck them once for straying towards another woman’s rear pockets.
Now they lie closed in a box on television, draped in Jack’s colours: red, white and blue.

Two wars rage:
One in sand.
And one in her heart.
For her, both are lost.




1 comment:

  1. What a moving write. The innocence of Grace is Graceful... very touching

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