In the pleurisy of a winter’s morn
My love for you skitters down the cobblestones
Glides past the children sliding in the snow
Seeks to guide you home-
It knows no borderline.
So take the silver latch-key
from deep inside your pocket
Kick the snow off your dubbined boots
and step inside to me.
Your war is over.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
I wrote this a long long time ago. I wrote this long before Dave went to Basrah. I wrote this before I spent the long lonely nights sat on the kitchen doorstep with a glass of wine in hand- wondering if he would ever come home and if my girls would ever see their dad again.
My biggest fear was that he would die and would be alone in that moment of death in a foreign and hostile landscape.
He and those he served with must have had similar concerns and I know that sometimes when he went out on dangerous missions he would leave notes for us under his pillow in case he didn’t return.
In the words of Wilfred Owen:
“The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est