Young enough still to hold my fathers
hands, we walked at my pace.
passing stalls selling stencils, crumpled
comics, mystical rugs it was endless.
Father led me to a spot draped in
camouflaged sheets. A man behind
the badge littered table smiled. I saluted
him with the right hand he saluted with
the left. Looking at my father with a
silent question. The man smiled, lifted
an armless arm 'lost it on the fourth day
of D-Day' He looked down at his
sagging collection of silver and bronze
badges 'in honour of my arm' he sighed.
Father bought me a unspent bullet
polished and gleaming. Leading me
through the horde of people I asked
father why he had never showed me
Grandads medals. Father looked
out at the sea and squeezed my hand.
Tighter and more affectionalty than ever
before 'There are many types of a
casulties of war'. This did not make
sense for a long time. Until last week
when I stumbled upon a yellow aged
letter written by my Nan to her friend
Betty telling her that her husband had
met a 'French Whore' whilst he was
serving his country and he would not
be coming home again.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/casualties-of-war/
