That summer came as summers used to do, following snow and Spring's renew,
And we believed things would not change and laughed as storms horizon-hung
Dripping dark clouds over the furrows, speckling the corn, sending shadows deep into the woods, far beyond our safe seclusion.
We planned the days to come with hopes and schemes, pie-eyed dreams,
With confidence of blood run hot, dreaming our love's delusions.
You picked me bluebells in the wood. I wound red poppies in your hair.
We did not speak but understood – our bodies bow strings to the bow:
Taut to the bow – not letting go. Not yet. Not yet. Please God not yet!
The station; and the hustle and the bustle and the crowded room.
We snatched at kisses cleaved in desperation, promising, promising,
Snared in our delusion. And the train steamed and hissed, and blew white smoke up into the cloudless air. When you opened the door to the crowded train, sensing we would not meet again, we clung a last goodbye.
Then the train steamed away, until remained one drift of smoke in the sun-bright air;
My hand left reaching into space as if to snatch you back – one sweet embrace.
And women left the station, eyes downcast, some weeping bitter tears some
Clutching babies to their breast. None spoke for words could not be wrung.
I went down to the bluebell wood today, one summer gone, one empty day,
Looking for you among the trees, dragging my toes in the long damp grass,
Calling your name but you had gone into some other field, away , away.
And in the poppy field, tall, ethereal and bright in the summer air, the poppies bloomed and as I passed, shed their red tears in wild array, and so I lay
Close to the earth breathing their dark scent as if the earth could bring me yours,
And I could hold you in my arms again.
And did we write our names upon the sand? Was it this summer?
And you so uniformed and fine, suntanned and bright with laughter
Drawing a stick against the encroaching tide, saying love would last forever.
We drove out to the airfield strip, pleaded with guards who would not let me pass
Beyond the wire where the waiting plane sat empty-bellied waiting to be filled.
And all around your mates stood eager, set to go, and yet reluctant to release the hold
They had on sweetheart, wife or friend, who'd come to see them off.
For we both we knew that, once that bird had taken to the sky, it was goodbye,
And fought to hide our tears, trying to stem the pain.
The aeroplane, its belly filled, took off, climbing on an Eastward course.
I stayed long after clouds had hid the last faint trace of its steep flight,
Then turned, and went home to hug the pillow trying to find
Where your scent still lingered blended with my tears.
They tell me you were killed among the poppy fields of Helmund Province,
Lying in the sand as if asleep, your body wreathed in petals red and white
Shedding their deadly beauty in some silent grief.
– Jean Brodie, Cinderford.