Little Soldiers
The tree stood tall and proud in a corner of the hall,
brightly coloured lights throwing patterns on the wall.
Holly boughs and berries strewn all around the room,
candles flickered on the hearth, warming winter's gloom.
This year would be different, Grandma came to stay
sitting by the fireside, while children sat at play.
Family all gathered round for one last Christmas chore,
the decorations in a box, waiting by the door.
Baubles, bells and tinsel, a fairy for the top,
candy canes and Santas, now it’s time to stop.
Children sent upstairs to bed, the hour was getting late,
one small box was left in the bottom of the crate.
Grandma sat and stroked the lid, tears were in her eyes;
she had no need to wonder, for she knew the surprise.
Little wooden soldiers with chipped and tarnished paint,
not brash and bright and shiny, to some a little quaint.
Each one with love was crafted by her husband’s caring hand,
she kissed their tiny faces, to her they looked so grand.
She hung them on the tree as a teardrop hit the floor,
her mind transported back to so many years before.
If only he could see them now, there in pride of place;
before her eyes an image of her Harry’s handsome face.
This would be a Christmas that she’d feel his presence near,
surrounded by her family all wrapped in Christmas cheer.
Christmas morning bright and early children from their beds,
rushing round the house, thoughts of presents filled their heads.
Grandma sat contented as she watched their happy faces,
toys, games and wrapping paper filled up empty spaces.
After lunch a quieter time children gather round,
Grandma tells of Grandpa and the soldiers they have found.
She stands them on the table in regimented rows,
she smiles as each one’s placed, the pride within her grows.
He made a soldier every year to put upon the tree;
the first, the day their son was born, ‘til he was twenty three.
Over years his skill increased, they soon became his art,
but the day their son was killed, was the day he lost his heart.
So far away from home he was fighting foreign wars,
he lay down his precious life fighting for a cause.
Grandma’s getting tired now and needs a little rest,
she settles by the fire clutching soldiers to her breast.
Her eyes grow dim and heavy as she dreams of days gone by;
her Harry standing by her side;
she smiles;
her last goodbye.
Honorable mention
Silver trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Shockingly beautiful, dear poet. Quite a poem, but you left me wondering. Did she die before the children? If she did...well, that's plain disturbing. Other than that, crafted with the hand of a true poet.
