Michael Fantina
Harold Owen confronts his brother's ghost
The sea was roiled with foam. The air was thick.
And there I saw my brother in the room,
In candlelight; his eyes were fraught with gloom,
While staring forward past the candlestick.
I thought perhaps it was some fake, a trick
By some unseen magaican. Strange perfume,
An otherworldly essence dripping doom
Now wounded my poor heart and made me sick.
Ramrod straight he sat, clutched his riding crop.
He seemed to manage just the barest smile.
I tried to greet him, something made me stop.
I stood and stared for quite a long, long while.
I learned, days later, a grief I must confront,
His ghost had travelled from the Western Front.
Page(s) 4
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