A/N - This is a poem I wrote years ago, and decided to post it because its there. For some reason it won't format properly so the stanzas have been lost.
Crying At The Kitchen Table
Crying at the kitchen table,
That's what it was for them; the parents and lovers, the sisters and the brothers.
Not the soldiers, you know.
There's two ways to die in a war.
One, to be killed in a raid,
In a ruthless attack on
Your family,
Your house,
Your place of work.
Your town,
Your country,
You.
The other in battle,
Fighting.
Killed by a stray curse or hex,
or a deliberate one.
Didn't matter,
when you were dead.
Of course,
you could be caught spying,
or happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,
overcome by grief. Just dead in the end.
But things never were black and white,
as it is always said,
only shades of grey.
Most deaths ended on the kitchen table.
For those who stayed at home,
who didn't go out to fight,
were lucky enough not to be killed in a raid,
that's where death hit home.
Spouses, siblings,
friends and lovers.
Sitting at the kitchen table,
crying into their hands.
'We are grieved to inform you…' the letter said.
Little more was needed nowadays,
Just the name.
Sometimes the crisp, clean paper
Came from a crisp, clean hand,
An official dressed in mourning they feared.
Else said in a crisp, clear tone.
It was the knock on the door they feared.
Sometime the crisp, clean parchment arrived by owl,
A regal, noble bird unaware of the sorrow it brought,
it was the black ribbon on its leg they feared.
The letter read, and abandoned over breakfast,
placed there by a trembling hand.
People found sitting, crying at the kitchen table.