Dusk in Afghanistan

He looks for beauty in this brutal game
Amongst the bitter dust of Helmand,
And finds it in the sun’s splendour;
Its amber rays caressing the mountain range
As army boots leave prints in the earth,
As barren as unanswered wishes.
He finds no flower to press against his face and smell
Memories of his wife’s perfume.
Waning daylight cling to rocks,
Holding back the invading night
Where silent terror lurks unseen.
And evil crouches, exhaling poison as it waits
Minute
By
Slow
Minute.
Squabbling insects dance and torment,
Biting and sucking his pink-parched skin.
He thinks of England’s gentle rain
Dimpling puddles under pewter skies,
And sighs.
Dusk creeps onwards darkening his thoughts,
As the Reaper hides nearby,
Planning a repulsive requiem,
Whilst searching for the next soul
To steal from loved-ones across the sea,
So
Many
Miles
Away.
The soldier wipes his furrowed brow
Wrinkled like the wind-blown dunes.
Eyes raised, he looks into the navy sky;
A shared constellation with home.
Moving onwards
Past peripheral shadows of outcrops,
Like broken teeth in a rotting mouth.
Tears roll down the hardest face each silent night
In this foreign land, where each man dreams
Of going home.

By Angela Barton

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

Sepia Memories

I wrote this poem for a competition with the theme, 'A Chance Remark.'



Sepia Moments

Touching your profile in sepia,
Tracing my finger
Around your smile.
Bundles of letters tied with ribbon,
Frayed and faded
It hugs your words.
A tear-stained message,
Peppered with smudged pools
Of diluted ink,
Telling of your death in war.
Sixty years of tears,
Believing you loved me.
That you held me in your heart
As you breathed your last.
Pages of memories
To turn
And fold.
To mark for future return,
When dwelling and lingering
Stings like salt
Seeping into a suppurating wound.
And then, a voice whispers cruelly
Shredding those pages,
Tearing at the truth,
Erasing each word.
A chance remark reveals
You live!
You lied.
A hero in war; a coward in love.
I heard the angel who nursed you,
Whilst I grieved,
Shared your three-score years.
Whilst I held in my arms
Your sepia bundle of words
And the child you never knew.

Angela Barton