I am lost in dreaming
The feel of your hand in mine
Dark lonely nights remembered
Inside the tall grey stone
Our time has fled
The circle closing
Their footsteps echo back in time
I see them still
When the mist is rising
their tall grey sentinels protecting
a way of life no longer remembered
scant mention in printed substance
should you visit the stones
you will find us here
a sudden breeze, a warmth
a whispered song
a sudden shimmer of grey
around the standing stones
don’t say, am I only dreaming…
We have always been a family that goes all out for Christmas. It was always a very special occasion for all of us.
Right back when the children were small, our living room would be transformed into a magical fairy land.
We were never well off and for most of the year, life was tough but one way or another, the stops would be pulled way out at Christmas.
Our tree and the decorations were legendary, and the ceiling would literally be covered in crystal droplets, stars and tinsel garlands.
One year, we had the opportunity to move to a new house on Christmas Eve, so we packed everything away and reinstalled it all in the new place. It took all night, but that Christmas was very special.
My own childhood was dismal, I don’t remember celebrating any Christmas or birthdays, so I became obsessed with making up for it when I grew up.
We have always tried to come up with a different theme every year and have had trees of every colour and size. Once we even had an upside-down tree!
Sadly, this year is going to be different. The family are all grown up and some are married with their own families, so we won’t be spending Christmas Day together for the very first time.
We will, however, be celebrating with them on Boxing Day instead.
Time moves on, we are getting seriously old and beginning to feel a little bit left behind. The thought of Christmas future is out of focus, a distant dream that may simply fade away…
Memories of Christmases past!
This is the time of year when I remember my father, thinking of what could have been if the Second World War hadn’t taken him from me.
I pay tribute to the man who gave me my height, my patience, my creative streak and my weird sense of humour all the time, but especially on Remembrance Sunday.
I know all of these things about him because people have told me what he was like. How he looked and sounded when he sat at the piano, belting out popular ragtime melodies.
They laugh when they tell me how funny he looked, stomping out the beat in his huge army boots.
I have lived all my life with these images, but have no way of knowing if they are true because I never met him. He didn’t return from the war and never met me.
I like to think that my life would have been so much better if he had come home, for my mother never got over losing him.
People say I shouldn’t feel sad for someone I didn’t know, but in a way, I do know him. He is a part of me and it certainly feels as though I knew him well. As well as I know myself.
I wrote a post last year about these ice soldiers, and you can read it here.
When we moved to Hampshire, one of the first things I wanted to do was visit the coast. Something I have done many times since, but on that very first time, we walked past the D-day Museum on the seafront. There was a huge tank outside and this bronze statue of the Unknown Soldier. As I studied the soldier, something about his posture and bearing had me imagining that this is what my father would have looked like.
To me, my father is the Unknown Soldier, and I like to think I will get to meet him, one of these days…
I heard a shadow scream
With bodily form within
My heart wrenched with need to help
The cry held the tears of the world
Weighing heavily on my mind
Stepping into the darkness
I heard the whispered words
She took my life, I was flushed away
I cannot move back nor forward
My spirit lies in limbo.
I knew this spirit, my mind
rushed back to my 11-year-old self
On instructions, it was my hand
that flushed this small body away
my life went on. It’s now in later years
I hear the echo of those days…
Colleen’s 2019 #Tanka Tuesday #Poet of the Week & Honorable Mention(s), No. 142, “Character & Wild,” #SynonymsOnly
hands no longer play
Time trapped in an old chest
Why do we keep these old things?
When we have no time left to play
Too often life takes joy from our hands
Why is it so painful to throw away?
In a box hidden from sight
My mothers love letters
Have come to light
Written in 1944
A soldier’s heart she craved
Soft word written with
Tear stained aged paper
Belies the woman who
Stands before me
Was it this lost love that turned
her heart to stone?