He sits doing nothing under the oak;
The silent house at the end of the drive;
His sister inside just wishing she’d known,
And the sun and the sky weeping a smile.
A sycamore seed falls, the bird has flown,
And the squatting man sobs on his own,
Clutching his knees and the grimy frame –
The last image of the fallen soldier,
Seemingly crumpled and withered by age
And yet the boat left Blighty but ten days.
The skylark soars into the azure belt
As the crying man tries to hide his shame
Of the haze of hills where he found his love,
The quay where he lost it: to him the same.