This is a poem about a grandfather I wish I’d taken the time as a child to ask more questions.


We met in the trenches

Of the Somme of your memory;

I loved your shrapnel voice, and

Your disinterest in my battles of

Plastic infantry upon the carpet

Of childhood.

Now you walk the corridors of

My own memories, all braces,

Sunday carving, and the garden roller

Of a soldier who once escaped the Germans.

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