John.

The stores were slow in France.

While he waited, January winds cut

along the trenches like sniper fire.

A thousand lifetimes spent

waiting for an overcoat.

The trenchcoat came the day

before the shell did, and nurses

smelling of death, covered him with it.

Three frozen days in a stable.

They shipped him home.

For five years his sister took his

hand and led him to his meals.

Now she stands above the dunes

and calls him. Mostly he comes.

"He is getting better."

She tells neighbours.

Children think he is funny.

He leaves long dragging marks

along the beach. He never talks,

and wears that long heavy coat

even in the heat of high Summer.

Sometimes he stumbles over rocks

and lies face down in the sand,

waiting for the roar of the sea to subside.

His sister says that mostly now he is at peace.

She promises that when he goes back underground

she will dress him warmly in his old army greatcoat.

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