Christmases with Uncle John
on Sheila Ash (India), 16/Dec/2017 07:47, 34 days ago
As soft as powdered snowHis white hair lay under his post man’s hatIn days before push trolleys eased their loadAnd high vis jackets proclaimed their presenceon dark winter mornings he walked the unlit streetsin silent solitude before dawn.His life was spent in two uniformsOf Institutions that defined him,That shaped his life.The first Initially worn with pride;The second finally worn to shield.The first took away any semblance of the young farm ladWho, in courage or foolhardiness, signed up to fight at fifteenThen bravely ran to face the enemy at YpresHis Black Watch turned to black shadowConstantly shriekingHauntingly shrinking his capacity to copeHe ran from a world no longer understoodTo the safety of home and familyWho never askedWho always acceptedTheir changed brother.I never knew the innocent youth left lost somewhere in the muds of FranceI only knew the older, odder, man next door, my uncle JohnWho never married; who never had children.But as we playedhis potting shed my second home,his garden pots my mud pie castle makersI saw my joy reflected in his eyesand on his face a momentary smile of carefree happiness.Only later did I understand the cause of his quietness,His shell shocked search for stillness and seclusionAnd how it must have been so very hard for him each yearat the noisy crowded Post Office Christmas partyas we walked hand in hand to see Santa Claus.As a child I simply saw his lovethe fun we had unwrapping presentsI did not see the chaos clanking in his mindhis rising anxiety amidst those festive hordesand the struggles he endured to balance his daemons for my sakeEach Season of Peace and Love.© Sheila Ash 16thDecember 2017ashramblings