´óÏó´«Ã½

By kind permission of the Author

‘Cooee!’ through the letter box.
Mother’s friend. She never knocks
When she’s had a letter from
Her soldier husband. In she’ll come,
Our mother just as pleased as she.
They put the kettle on for tea.
Together they mull over stale
And censored news, each small detail
Savoured for its proof that, then
At least, he was alive, and when
Her letter comes another day
Our mother visits there. They play
That same charade of spurious hope
That buoys them up and helps them cope
Through all the arid days of mere
Birthday cards and bills and sheer
Rubbish from the Government.
Best of all is when we’re sent
A letter each. I savour mine
In bed, in the hooded torch’s shine
Beneath the sheet. I never want
To share. I cannot see the point.
He’s written this for me, and I
Have learned to write. I can reply.

‘This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Merseyside’s People’s War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his/ her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.’

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