‘How about marmite toast’ I said.
‘Perfect’ came a quick reply
and, with a push, a magic toast rack
kick-starts time - he nods his head.
No need for clocks, he’s on his way
when chewing starts a perfect day.
‘You’re luckier than most’ he means
‘but miss the move when life’s imperfect.’
A hand is ticking, ever moving,
clocking now with chances perfect.
Perfect every passing minute,
perfect as a melting snowflake.
Brian wasn’t looking for trouble,
when he entered the ward’s military kitchen
but, there, a young and wounded man
asked him ‘You a conchie chum?
You look healthy, willing and able.’
He answered simply, flat, straightforward;
‘That’s the way I read the Bible!’
The soldier snorted; reached for his mess tin.
‘Listen mate, I’m only eighteen;
back from France where my pal was shot
shouted for Mum as he clasped and dropped
(I’ve heard a lot of shouts for Mum)
but at Dunkirk I got hands on a German,
stuffed his face in water ‘til his lungs were clogged.
I shouted him down, kicking, ‘til he wasn’t moving.’
Eye met eye at the door of the kitchen,
A smile,
look down.
‘Thanks
Yes thanks
for listening.’
