Kia ora koutou,
This is a poem I wrote in memory of all the wives and kids whose lives were harmed when their husbands, fathers, sons, came back damaged, unhappy, marked forever by what they’d seen and done in both wars and to whom neither the government nor the medical profession offered any help. The men were supposed to just come back and ‘get on with it’. Some of then did but lots of them didn’t.

She remembers him waving.
He fixed the lemon tree with salt
carved his name on the wooden spoon
she used for mixing pikelets. She said
she’d wait. This was before.

Now the Band packs up her troubles…

The club went south to tramp.
One day the boys played bulrush.
She made scones and apple shortcake.
He whipped the cream, sneaked a lick
from the beater. This was before.

In her old kitbag…

The Lieutenant-Colonel sings,
the minister prays — reads a poem,
talks about sacrifice. She smells
mint, remembers the tomato sauce.
She’d sterilised the bottles.

Now there’s a Lucifer to light your fag…

It all got spilt, the spoon bent,
the bottles broken, her arm. He got a warning
from the constable after he chopped down
the lemon tree, broke the frame on the photo
of him smiling.
This was after.

And the band smiles and smiles and smiles…
This is after.

Renée