Ypres

Just an old bound notebook
Not easy to understand
For the staining of the pages
And the spidery sprawling hand
The cover is bent and cracked
Its colour nearly faded grey
Such a nondescript book
I nearly threw it straight away
But I .glanced inside
Read a page or two
Riffled backwards and forwards
The way you sometimes do
Picked up the words
Of love and hate
Of a love
Declared too late

Declared from a trench
In the heart of France
But never passed on
He never had the chance
His life ended
Hanging on barbed wire
A place called Ypres
By machine gun fire

I found it in the house
When I cleared away her things
The book mark was a ribbon
Holding two gold rings
She'd never married
And now I knew why
She carried a love
That wouldn't die
My maiden aunt
Gone on at last
Maybe maybe
Reunited with her past
I kept the old book
It's on my desk shelf
I read it now and then
Mostly when I'm by myself

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