The scent of green
I’ve all I need: my books, TV, a view
of sparrows and squirrels in the apple tree;
and when they mow the lawn, I almost dare
breathe unlost summers in the scent of green.
Other girls never returned to their life before –
I quietly hid my uniform, away
from where my hands might search the wardrobe rail,
and placed my demob bag in the attic, to fade.
My family welcomed me to their routines,
but the clouds of peace hung heavy on our home
and no-one wanted more for me, nor seemed
to wish me to want more, than I’d once known.
I couldn’t wish what they did not, nor keep
my raw imagination under rein:
she flew too fast – and when horizons loomed
she shied, I fell; and never rode again
and half forgot I’d shared a bond, dark hours
and dreams with friends, and helped to win a war,
and danced the conga in Trafalgar Square.
Days pass. In here I’m safe; I’m fed; I’m warm.
Phil Vernon 