Just a random poem from me today. This was recently published in The Lake.
Blighty When he returned, they were so glad to find him whole, unblemished: four limbs, two eyes, skin tanned but unburnt, unholed. They’d heard the stories of what might have been, those bodies minced and sutured back together, faces melted, bones and flesh replaced with metal. You made it through, they cried, wrapped arms around the solid, reassuring mass of him, awaiting his embraces in return. None came: those fine, muscled arms hung limply by his side. Such words as passed his mouth appeared to come from very far away. So much of him had missed the plane and was still over there, among the bullets and the bombs that took his friends but spared this now half-empty body. What’s left of him is lost inside it, midway between these caring faces and the other self for whom there can be no way back. Pic: Ronnie Macdonald 2017. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0