His white hair lay under his post man’s hat
In days before push trolleys eased their load
And high vis jackets proclaimed their presence
on dark winter mornings he walked the unlit streets
in silent solitude before dawn.
His life was spent in two uniforms
Of Institutions that defined him,
That shaped his life.
The first Initially worn with pride;
The second finally worn to shield.
The first took away any semblance of the young farm lad
Who, in courage or foolhardiness, signed up to fight at fifteen
Then bravely ran to face the enemy at Ypres
His Black Watch turned to black shadow
Hauntingly shrinking his capacity to cope
He ran from a world no longer understood
To the safety of home and family
Who never asked
Who always accepted
Their changed brother.
I never knew the innocent youth left lost somewhere in the muds of France
I only knew the older, odder, man next door, my uncle John
Who never married; who never had children.
But as we played
his potting shed my second home,
his garden pots my mud pie castle makers
I saw my joy reflected in his eyes
and on his face a momentary smile of carefree happiness.
Only later did I understand the cause of his quietness,
His shell shocked search for stillness and seclusion
And how it must have been so very hard for him each year
at the noisy crowded Post Office Christmas party
as we walked hand in hand to see Santa Claus.
As a child I simply saw his love
the fun we had unwrapping presents
I did not see the chaos clanking in his mind
his rising anxiety amidst those festive hordes
and the struggles he endured to balance his daemons for my sake
Each Season of Peace and Love.
© Sheila Ash 16th December 2017