Old Comrades

 

       OLD COMRADES

 

 

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.

 

 

Malcolm Evison

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