A mother’s thoughts on the eve of war
India and Pakistan have announced a ceasefire. I feel relieved to know that there won’t be anymore violence between the two nations. While I acknowledge it and my heart celebrates that, I feel a deep sense of pain for the innocent families that have been affected on both sides of the border. I don’t understand how a war can ever be a promise for peace. I am still scared. I grieve for the innocent souls who lost their lives, I grieve for the children whose lullaby’s over the last few days were sounds of bombs and shellings. I pray for the soldiers who laid their life for the country. I pray for their families. I pray for a future which is terror and war free.
Sharing a hauntingly beautiful poem today in the newsletter and that’s going to be it for this week. Here’s ‘A Mother’s thoughts on the eve of war’ by Jo Skelt
On Henry’s bed, I have just laid out
his military tunic, neatly pressed
like his first starched school uniform,
and his new peaked cap
its two brass buttons shining brilliantly,
as if already victorious.
A special rifle patch has been sown
above the breast pocket
and I cannot bring myself to look at it
or to contemplate wholly, why
they are preparing him for trench warfare,
rifle fire and grenade attacks.
You know, they checked Henry’s teeth
when he enlisted,
as if he were an animal
– how I wished they had been rotten.
But the 14th Royal Warwickshire Regiment
has cast its spell,
Henry is bedazzled by the Regimental band,
football matches and boxing contests,
dreaming no doubt of glory,
the promise of arriving on French soil
of returning to his sweetheart here
more a man: a brave soldier.
I wonder has he really contemplated
what lies between? Have I?
Have any of us?
Birmingham, the entire city
seems poised for change, expectant,
strangely more excited
than trepidatious.
It is now evening, 3 August 1914,
from my kitchen window
I can see Annie, Ada and Ernest
playing in the yard, animated silhouettes,
like the Punch and Judy puppets
we saw once at the seaside,
each of them blissfully unaware
that their eldest brother, their own Henry
is leaving tomorrow for the War.
Thank heavens my other boys
are still too young for this,
I shall guard them closely
till Henry’s home again – at Christmas so they say.
It is battle enough to keep them
all alive, safe from influenza,
the cold wet weather
descending in cold fronts
when the Autumn comes.
Sometimes I feel he is lost to me
already, endlessly thumbing his tobacco
and his mess tin absorbed in imaginary adventures,
his rifle standing by the front door
as if killing time.
And they tell me to feel proud
to wave my flag
but I see only my children’s silhouettes
inside which are mouths to feed,
another on the way, the twins crying
from the parlour,
and in the fading light, my once white washing
hanging like old party bunting
-a neglected pledge for peace,
soaking up the spitting rain
while from the east, I can just make out
dark clouds gathering…
Stay safe, Rishabh 🤞🤞