Polly In The Dark 1917 Poem by Terry Collett

George lies
on his bed
in the dark.

I sit in the chair
by the window
curtains drawn.

I could have gone
through to the room
next door adjoined
by a door
where his man
used to sleep
before the War.

He joined
George's regiment
but was killed
just after George's
brain gave way
on the Somme.

I sit in case
he wakes
and panics
if I'm not here.

His parents
are not happy
that I am here
with him
but he insists
I am his wife
not the maid
he used to bed
while home
on leave
and before.

The nurse he had left
after George refused
to have her
in the room
and only me
to be there.

I wish
he was well
and back to how
he was
not this
broken man
who lies on his bed
in the dark
moaning through
another nightmare.

I peer through
the slit where
the curtains meet.

I see a narrow
wedge of field
and trees and sky.

I wonder what god
it was who brought
George back
but left
his man to die.