Grandfather

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Last delivery. Wartime

Burning hot coals the polished oven glows.
The three ladies assume their usual roles.
They glance at each other as if this is worth a mention.
The ginger and white nosed cat sprawls on the best cushion.

There are pink roses on the fence near the door.
It all looks so calm, but the world is at war.
In the small home made chicken run
three hens scratch and sprawl in the sun.

Sarah sorts scraps to supplement the potatoes that boil quietly.
The world is being destroyed, all things pass eventually.
The sound of a lone Spitfire belies the calm, and then it is silent.
The sky is blue, A chicken has laid an egg, it is a welcome event

Sarah places the egg against her cheek.
Warmth always comes with caution.
A loved one blown swiftly into the arms of Angels
poses a conflict of emotion.

She knows that warmth does not last
The unmade are always like raindrops
Looks fade as quickly as roses.
The earth trembles, The coalman stops.

He drags bags across his lorry
He staggers down the path to the shed with the broken door
I count four times.
There is a heap on the floor.

Perhaps he says a prayer before he calls a greeting
He stands, drinking tea. I look for my boyhood
It is not inside the broken window, the oven is outside
It has not fallen from Heaven. it rusts in the mud.