I was the wind
That never blew the leaf
That never fell
From the tree
That never grew.
I was the rain
Before there were clouds.
I was a marking on a rock
Before anyone could draw or write.
I was the sunset
Before anyone could see.
I was a kiss
Before there were lips.
I was a whisper
When people could only shout.
I was the second
Before the first second.
I was the love
That was fashioned
From nothing
That came and went
Back to nothing.
I am the next breath
I will never need.
I am dead
To my love
Even worse
To her I never existed.

I wrote you
Something
Hoping you would find it
On the bark of a tree
In a forest
Somewhere.

I shouted out
Something
Hoping you would hear it
Amongst the crows and seagulls
In a field or at a beach
Somewhere.

I painted you
Something
Hoping you would see my colour
In a rainbow
In a troubled sky
Somewhere.

I cried for
Something
Hoping you would see my tears
In a waterfall
In a river
Somewhere.

And if you did
You could do the same.
Maybe we are communicating
On a different level already.

I had expected to be woken
By canons and church bells
And brass bands and people
Lining the streets
Waving the Union Jack and climbing
On each others shoulders
To get a better view
Of the victorious homecoming troops
And shouting 'Let me take your rifle son,
You won't be needing that anymore'.
But instead a kind of eerie silence pervades -
A bit like any other Bank Holiday really.

So, bemused I wander into town
Along with the other stragglers
Solitary shell shocked forlorn figures,
Some wearing medals
Who like me had somehow become left behind
And missed the best of the fighting.
Nor do the decorations inspire patriotic fervour,
Half a mile of bunting
And a scattering of flags
Hanging listlessly in the morning drizzle,
And the odd poster advertising fireworks tonight
All live ammunition having been descretely confiscated.

In one shop as if to draw attention
Away from their opening
There is a school project, a mock up
Of the Blitz
While others, not wishing to prosper from war
Have remained closed.
A handful of old soldiers are huddled
Around the memorial, in muted thanksgiving.
They place wreaths, salute and hug each other
And I feel if only I could hear what they were saying
Then I would really know.

But on TV celebrations are gathering pace.
Numerous authentic black and white films
And to stirring renditions of the Dam Busters
A parade for those who knew victims and survivors
Who wipe away tears and stare into no man's land,
And later beaming presenters will reunite
Sons and daughters of airmen missing
And presumed dead seventy five years ago
With their families, who in turn
Will be introduced to the grandchildren of their captors
Who have become best of friends
And who now regularly go fishing together.

Not for us the delights of Venice
A tan on the Med or being seen on the piste,
Our holiday was passed down to us by elders
Who religiously planned for two weeks of heaven at least
When the whole street decended
Like so many aliens
Who on reaching the earth's atmosphere
Forgot they were supposed to **** and pillage
And just went plain silly,
In caravans and huge tents you said
A congregation of days running together
Whose shimmering horizons, like great moats
Protected, edified, were ready to sweep away
Invading thoughts of ever returning to that hum drum existence
Of that make believe life forever ended.

Sadly we never achieved such heights
Ours were snatched days, hastily arranged nights
When we gambled on the weather
Opted for more familiar sights,
And there it is, just as you had left it
The sandcastle with tiny flagged turrets
And shells, handpicked, embroidered
On to walls packed tight
Enough to repel the advancing tide
The merciless frothy blackness, creeping all night
Over our lost childhood and innocence.

Even those stolen moments are not on offer any more
Leaving me hundreds of miles from shore
With the bucket and ***** you both forgot
And plenty of time to reflect
On what could have been
But if I ***** up my eyes really tightly
I can just make out two small figures
Playing like children
On the beach
In the sun.

Do we ever recover
From the shame
Of that first essay
Thrown back,
Covered in red ink
With comments like,
'Spelling mistakes galore,
Writing unintelligible,
Question misunderstood,
Could have done better,
Should have been more?'

Or held up in class
For everyone to see
Read aloud
To a background
Of sniggering relief
As an example of how
Not to do it
And then, 'If this is
Your best, it beggars belief.'

They say some mistakes
Are accepted
Even invited as part
Of the process,
But going back
To when we first met
It seems so many
Have gone uncorrected
That you cannot forgive
Or forget.

I may as well be in love
With a ghost
With a body chalked out
On the kitchen floor.
Are you the delicate draught
On my cheek
When the window is closed?
Is it you skimming the cups and plates
Across the room?
Are you the sound of rustling leaves
When there is no tree in sight?
Do you slam a door
In the middle of the night
When I know they are all locked?
Are you moving that single cloud
Across the sky
Or is it doing it
All by itself?

Enough already!
We need less poems
At this time
And more prayers,
Or are they
The same thing?