The Mother

Year: 1919

by Peter Austen   

            Somewhere in France he lies-
Above his head the scarlet poppies blow,
And silver moons have bloomed and still will bloom;
Somewhere the distant great guns boom and boom-
And 'cross the Harbour blue, the wind with slow,
Sad whispers, sighs.
           Somewhere in France he lies-
And I, I wailing, seek his empty room,
Stretching my arms out to the empty gloom,
Clasping a dream.  Then through the day I go
With hollow eyes.
          Somewhere in France he lies-
Oh hollow eyes, oh mouth that aches with woe,
No more for me shall moon or flower bloom-
And yet another, but less splendid tomb-
Ah, I am proud, am proud, to-day to know
In France he lies!
           Somewhere in France he lies-
But oh, each scalding tear that dries
Upon my cheek; my moans, my cries,
That rise and still must rise
Up, up to Heaven and those cold blue skies!
           Peter Austen (1919)