The Homecoming

I remember
today, as if it had been yesterday
when he first told me:

How the plane had landed
on a desolate airfield
how he, a young soldier
had stumbled down the gangway,
how he had wanted to kneel and kiss the earth,
only to be sharply called back by the sergeant
to join ranks with his buddies,
to be dismissed, finally,
from his service to his country.

They had come back
from halfway around the world
with no one to greet them,
to welcome them home.

There was no ticker tape parade,
no welcoming speeches
They were not called heroes.
No, that happened years later
for those who returned from a Three-Day war.

No,, their plane had been directed
to land
in that desolate airfield
under cover of darkness,
as if to hide the shame of that war,
a war no one had wanted.

He, and all the others, were spat upon,
called “baby killers”,
as if they had had a choice then:
they had been drafted….

And so he had hunched his shoulders,
braced himself,
gone on with his life,
as it were,
his aching knees a reminder
of his paratrooper sorties,
flashbacks in the dark of night,
tunnels filled with fetid water,
jungle rot on his feet,
unseen enemies.

He had shrugged:
“it was a bad dream,
best forgotten”,
and yet…

I know

As a child I suffered the ravages
of another war long ago.

I know

On this Day,
I raise my voice,
albeit a small voice
and call out to you,
and you,
to all of you:

You are not forgotten,
You will not be forgotten.