He remembers
snowy white linen,
exquisite tablecloths…
and laughter as his trembling
fingers play with idle
shirt tails;
snowy white linen
folded back on tables,
smoothed by callused
hands while his eyes
were busy, drawn
to the streets –
still not hardened
to war, still dotted
with flecks of hope.
Today, outside
of his dark, crumbling
recesses where only
his mind is safe to wander,
life tries to carry on,
but its shoulders
are hunched from fear,
legs are paralysed,
tired, knee deep in rubble;
dereliction rises
along with memories
that were smells
of hot coffee
and fresh, frosted rolls.
Voices chatter briskly
as stretched nerves
are released temporarily;
screams tether
their hearts once again
to people they once knew
two minutes ago;
perhaps blown apart,
or maybe it was children
all along, simply playing where
they shouldn’t –
perhaps memories are
confused – perhaps.
Instantly, familiar sights
and sounds…
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