Found in attic´s dusty trunk, long forgotten,
Lilac sprigged, hand stitched Egyptian cotton,
Lavender scented, bloody-edged, hemmed lace,
Of your life Gran, of your history, not a trace.
A sepia letter hidden within its delicate folding,
A prayer all these years it was gently holding,
Telling of what this hanky really meant to you,
Revealing the secret of a misty love so true.
“With this little handkerchief I dried my tears,
When he went to that war for all those years,
On his last trip, this hanky I furtively slipped,
Beneath his battled tunic, torn and ripped.”
The blood you see was the bayonet´s gain,
Piercing my hanky, close to his heart in pain,
His body interred beneath foreign cold mud,
And returned to me, just his lace-edged blood.
No comments:
Post a Comment