In every corner of this quiet room,
Your absence hums, a lingering gloom.
Your letters arrive, I hold them near,
But they can't replace your voice, my dear.
Each morning I scan the paper for your name,
I'm glad I've not found it - I hope that stays the same.
The kettle boils, but the tea's grown cold,
And I wait by the fire as the days grow old.
My hands have learned the weight of fear,
To cook and to sew, to distract my tears,
But I miss your warmth, your bad jokes,
And even though I hated it, I miss when you smoked.
I pray every morning, every night, every day,
That you will survive your fight and stay safe.
You promised you would return soon, when will that be?
Oh please come back to England, back home, back to me.
YOU ARE READING
To Live is to Die
PoesiaI find war a fascinating topic-so broad yet so focused, filled with so many emotions and endless stories to explore. Sadness has its own kind of beauty, and that's what I wanted to capture here. To Live is to Die is my way of remembering the lives s...
