Polly polishes
George's room
as Gripe had told her.
Rubs the polish cloth
over the sideboard
into a bright shine.
Polish smell;
sniffs it;
sniffs the cloth.
Rubs again,
another surface.
The window is open;
fresh air enters,
blows curtains inwards.
She hears birdsong
from outside.
She pauses polishing;
goes to the window
and peers out.
Wonders where
George is.
How he is doing
in that hospital
with shell-shock.
Across the Channel
war is on.
Men being killed;
men driven mad
with sight seen.
George said about
seeing a head gazing
at him on trench top.
She bites her lip;
wishes he
was back home.
The Master's son;
she a maid.
He and she making love
in his bed that last time.
Wants it again;
warm in his bed;
him kissing her.
His moustache tickling
her to giggles,
shafting her
to a seventh heaven.
She walks back
to the bed
and lies down.
Imagines him there;
knows he is not,
just lies and stares
at the ceiling
with that deep down
lost feeling.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
Polly polishes
George's room
as Gripe had told her.
Rubs the polish cloth
over the sideboard
into a bright shine.
Polish smell;
sniffs it;
sniffs the cloth.
Rubs again,
another surface.
The window is open;
fresh air enters,
blows curtains inwards.
She hears birdsong
from outside.
She pauses polishing;
goes to the window
and peers out.
Wonders where
George is.
How he is doing
in that hospital
with shell-shock.
Across the Channel
war is on.
Men being killed;
men driven mad
with sight seen.
George said about
seeing a head gazing
at him on trench top.
She bites her lip;
wishes he
was back home.
The Master's son;
she a maid.
He and she making love
in his bed that last time.
Wants it again;
warm in his bed;
him kissing her.
His moustache tickling
her to giggles,
shafting her
to a seventh heaven.
She walks back
to the bed
and lies down.
Imagines him there;
knows he is not,
just lies and stares
at the ceiling
with that deep down
lost feeling.
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