The Telegram

The Telegram

Alone she sits in dressing gown,
her world around her falling down,
The crumpled telegram in hand,
The words so blurred, so harsh, so bland.

The day had started really well,
The war was over so they tell,
In battlefields no more he’d roam,
In six weeks time he’d be back home.

Back home to sit in pastures green,
To hold the boy he’d never seen,
Now four years old, running around,
Not for him that merry-go round–

Of war, destruction, living hell
He wouldn’t hear the bell’s death knell,
The paper signed by foreign power,
Eleventh day, eleventh hour.

Then came the rap upon her door,
Her bones they shivered to the core,
Her legs went weak, had no control,
All hope gone from her empty soul.

He stood there quietly, alone,
That skinny boy, so barely grown,
Gave her the paper avoided her eye,
She opened it, cried ‘No reply’

The words resounded in her head,
They’ve made a mistake, he can’t be dead,
She read the name, Private Ian Pound,
Missing in action on foreign ground.

Despite her prayers he never returned,
Advances of suitors rejected, spurned,
Her heart knew no other, first true love,
Fitting together like hand in glove.

She raised her son to be a man,
He went off to war, was killed at Cannes,
A telegram once more received,
Another loved one to be grieved.

With bitter heart she struggled on,
In the shadow of World War one
and World War two, she lived her life,
Full of sorrow and full of strife.

Today she sits there, old and grand,
Two crumpled papers in her hand,
The telegrams of both her men,
She closed her eyes, joined them again.

Eric Harvey 06/11/2020