The Letter

Watching attentively, she sat by the window, as the morning mist rolled, as if by command, over the back field, Sipping her coffee, with a fag in the other hand, taking long drags, but unable to conquer or so much as raise a smile, As a wooden plane, fell from view, behind some trees and into the breach, a mothers heart, so far from healed, With a tedious sigh, she flicked through the rank pages of The Mirror, minus any concentration all the while, The headlines, didn't interest her, it was always the same pointless, and annoying bulletins, repetitive old routine, and words, Nothing could fire her mind, right at this time, everything seemed too distant, to her, from him, empty and at waste, She was startled by a sound, glancing, unsure now, to the window, to see a farmer rounding his herds, Bitterness, despair and anger, were all consuming, within, and no other emotion could satisfy that sweet-less taste, She picked up the letter for the all-knowing 47th time, 'Dear Mrs Compton we regret...' knowing just how it went, The revolving words, played games with her mind, triggering memories, her an the young'un, of days gone past, Her beautiful baby boy had been taken, in that land where peace was but a myth, his youth denied, cut short, unspent, A tear rolled down her cheek, not the first, just another one of many, taking orders from the previous, from the last, She dropped the letter, as if in slow-motion onto the table, and looked once more out onto the barren field, Many days and nights would follow her to no end, unrelenting hurt, for never would, a mothers heart ever be healed.