David J. Delaney

THE WAR AT HOME

Upon her shoulder she can feel his touch,
the way he did; now seems so long ago,
while tears roll down her sad and weary face,
she watches new young soldiers as they go.

The waving flags they make her reminisce,
when she was in the noisy joyous crowd,
remembering the time when she joined in,
to farewell her brave man and feeling proud.

She said goodbye in nineteen forty one,
to her loved soul mate and new husband Bill.
As childhood sweethearts their love grew and grew.
They married, in their church up on the hill.

While once again she views the soldiers march,
now thoughts go back to nineteen sixty four,
when, like her long departed Bill, their son
was sent to fight in Vietnam’s cold war.

Her tears still flow, though now it’s twenty ten,
today these men are off to fight the fight,
she’s sad, for some will die on foreign soil,
and leave young widows crying in the night.

She knows that war is hell on the home front;
just ask the loved ones and you’ll find it true,
or children growing up without their dad
surviving on some paltry revenue.

She looks out through the window once again,
the soldiers and the crowd are almost gone,
and thinks about the war that’s fought at home;
‘pick up the broken pieces and move on’.

Throughout the generations and today,
we honour those who fight, and those who fought,
and how their sacrifices pave the way,
so mateship and our freedoms can be taught.

You see, there is another sacrifice;
it’s one that through the years has caused much strife,
for rarely is it read in any book,
the pain that’s felt by lovers or a wife.

Upon her shoulder she can feel his touch
though this time she is feeling so alone,
for from this window she must now return
to her own room, in this old nursing home.