This is my (sort of) Act of Remembrance, for Armistice Day.
I see you even here
My Edith.
I shouldn't, I know, drag you here.
You are lovely, so lovely, and here…
Here is not France.
France was lovely too
So very long ago. Months and months ago.
So many lifetimes. So many lives.
This mud grew vines, wine of the gods.
Now it runs red.
Yet, still, I see you everywhere.
The sparkle in your eyes in the night ordnance.
They are seeking their enemies, I seek only you.
I see the compassion you would shower
On my men reflected in their terrified eyes.
I try to reassure them, as you would.
You are my inspiring angel.
I do not deserve your presence in my life.
I am too old for you, though not too old to die
Like a young man: my body as riddled with bullets
As it is drenched in love for you. My blood is yours.
An old heart loves just as fiercely, just as agonisingly.
I pray you find someone young and whole and noble.
There are so many young lives scattered over these fields, like chaff,
While the old generals sit and bicker in a gentlemanly fashion, politely.
Death is impolite, most improper.
Broken bodies should not be seen in the drawing room,
Just as the young should be seen on the battlefield and not heard.
The men hate us, free in their disdain.
They die secure in the knowledge that this was not their fault.
I wish I had that luxury. Officer class training, Harrow, Cambridge,
We run…or ran…the Empire, for King and Country.
Now we feed the mud with the harvest of our country's youth.
No, I don't deserve you, my lady. Boring, ineffectual, old, culpable,
What can I offer you?
The last muddled, muddied, dying breaths of the Ancien Régime Anglaise,
When you deserve the freshness of joy, the clarity of passion,
The absolute certainty of love.
I am certain of you. No matter what was said to make me doubt myself.
I love you so much, Edith. So very much,
I never want to forget you, in life, in death.
I pray you've forgotten me already.
