Uncle Charlie dug the garden every winter
to get away from the noise of children,
chatter of women, to a world
of memory, where birdsong, wind
in the trees and cold crisp air shut out
the tortured present, where soldiers
under fire, laughed at death,
scavenging for eggs, chickens.
After the shelling, noise
always made him tremble. He’d
pick up his spade and head for
the allotment, see the bombed
remains of his parents’ house,
his wartime bride, free
from interruption to think, lose
himself in silence.
On bad days he’d take out
his medals, arrange them by date, recite
the names of comrades, a murmured roll-call.
The day he died, he polished his medals,
pinned them to his jacket, his beret
smart, and made his peace with
his captured Mauser.
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