The bruise of the war
blue-black as hedgerow
jam, takes time to heal.
Splinters like blackberry
thorns fester and ache.
Bombs fractured us three
even though we only
saw them through your eyes.
Our father, merchant
seaman who rose in
and out of the sea.
The lawn was earthed up
flowers gone, carrots
in and chickens penned
ready for Sunday.
There is no answer
to fragmentation
only time and hope
for a single kind
day.
This works really well, Di. I like the healing ending. I couldn’t relate the father bit to the food. If you omitted ‘Our father……the sea’, you would just lose one triplet!?
Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I’ll get rid of that.