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

This entry was posted in POETRY. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s