Wednesday, 17 September 2014

A Time for War

She plumps up cushions on her sofa
in a flat off Baker Street tube,

two miles from the bookstore 
where her mother tore a page: a poem

about a soldier who never came home, 
framed it at her pre-fab, then made

cornflake-packet soles to replace the holes. 
On nights alone she would hold his pocket watch,

the steady tick but a glance away 
from her father's eyes.

Sharon Woodcock
Ashford, Kent, UK

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