Hauntings

Hauntings

Two verse poem about things that haunt.

1944-08-02

One page typewritten document

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[underlined]HAUNTINGS[/underlined]

Is there no rest? All day they walk with me;
By night their unseen forms engulf my bed
And whisper through the dark, “It is unjust
You should be living still. We are the dead
Whom you call friends –why did you steal apart
And leave us? Why did you give in? Our trust
Was in your faithful hands and yet you failed.”

Once more I wake, and fill the room with light
And smoke a cigarette. The homely place
Takes on new calm, and my uneasy heart
Comes, lulled at fresh remembrance of your face
To peace.
But they’ll come back, another night.

Tuddenham
2 Aug 44