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Picking The Bones
The scenery was as breathtaking as ever,
But I was still troubled by that smell,
Which my family are unaware of,
Which is probably just as well.
They took in the sights and they soaked up the autumn sunshine.
While I only had eyes for the sightless staring,
Of peg toothed upland villages.
The still silent monuments of the misery.
Later on the coast, over drinks with our hosts,
His wife, bubbly, full of life,
First raised the issue of the war,
In apology for her husband,
Her lifeless shadow.
“It changed him terribly;
He won’t speak about it, even now, not with me,
If ever, then only with his veteran friends.
He drank a lot in the first years,
Our marriage nearly ended there.
He couldn’t sleep, waking, sweating, swearing and screaming.
He couldn’t hold a job,
But he’s on top of it now,
Much improved.
He’s getting proper help!”
My wife nodded, close to tears,
In mutual recognition.
I tried talking to him,
With some difficulty as his German was easily as poor
As my war torn Croatian.
I named the places where I had served,
Naming the scenes but not the crimes.
I saw his head rock in recognition,
Of each blow in the litany,
Like a boxer, punch-drunk, on the ropes.
He’s getting proper help,
And we’re much improved,
But none of us are on top of it!
