The Forgotten Scarf

Yesterday, whispers that war was over
Trickled down the wireless, and filled the room with news
As sweet as honeysuckle blooms.
Hopes of my love returning, prodded my eyes through the night,
Keeping sleep as remote as the land in which he fought.
And now I’m running, frightening birds in sallies of flight
As I race, brushing blossoms and dew-laden ferns aside.
Holding petticoats aloft as words escape my lips,
“He’s home.”
I saw him from my window, waving at the gate;
Its five bars, lichen encrusted and pale.
I’m hurrying, across the purple paddock
Infused with scents of lavender and meadowsweet.
I’m skipping through silver flashes of dew
Which sparkle like a bride’s smile on each translucent leaf.
“He’s home.”
I’m jumping, soaring over hillocks
Of lanky wild grasses which sway to the breeze’s melody.
I remember the soft touch of his lips on mine,
His arms which held me tightly, cocooned in love.
And now, raw and bloodied, I must hold him.
“He’s home.”
The sun dims and slinks behind purple clouds
Which slip across the bare blue sky.
I reach the gate and can’t hide the smile upon my lips,
Even though the peeling paintwork stabs my fingertips
As my knuckles clench the wood.
I call his name, but silence greets me like an insult.
The lane is bare beneath arms of sycamore,
A tunnel of boughs through which dreams travel.
Golden rays re-appear, warming my face; but not my heart.
And then I see it,
Tied to the gate post which stands proud and sentinel.
A forgotten scarf waving a frayed greeting in the breeze.
Just a blue tattered yarn, ripped and discarded.
A trick of the light.

Angela Barton