Coming Home

He sat right down, his face a frown, and not a word was spoken,
Stared at the fire, his gaze so dire, his mind empty and broken,
That frightened man reached for my hand, his love was but a token,
A brave young man who’d made a stand, but senses now awoken.

What happened to the man I knew, where had his spirit gone?
Left on the brink among the stink of trenches on the Somme,
He yells in sleep from slumber deep, ‘Come on my boys – come on,
Don’t you dare stop we’re o’er the top when whistle blows anon.’

He’s grown a beard…this man now feared, his hair’s in need of comb,
His haunted face deserves no place, in this our loving home.
I tried to speak, his eyes were bleak, back to the war they’d roam,
His mind was vexed just as complex as any honeycomb.

This bloody war though now no more, yet memories remain,
Man’s mighty sword now not so broad – worn down by death and pain,
In God we trust…we surely must, or what would be the gain?
I look to Bill and with man’s will, this can’t occur again!

Eric Harvey 10/02/2018