Every morning at a quarter to eight
Gullyferry, she gets on the bus there
Wearing the same dress, sits in the same seat,
Faded straw hat, the smell of unwashed hair.
Her journey's end is the railway platform
Where she will meet the first train of the day,
Searching the faces, hoping, then forlorn,
Until the last train, - and she turns away.
It is seven years since the War was won,
Seven years of daily journeys that she
Has been coming to 'meet' her only son,
She disbelieved "missing, presumed drowned at sea".
JB
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