The Home Front
Every
dreary day seems just the same,
Getting
through the housework or the shopping,
Passing
time and anxious waiting,
The
clock forever ticking, never stopping.
Answering
the children’s questions,
About
their father who’s far away,
Counting
down the lonely hours,
Until
the hoped-for home-coming day.
He
could be on patrol this very minute,
Through
the muddy landscape, on the tramp,
Fearful
of what might happen next,
Before
he can make the safety of camp.
Heavy
cannons screaming overhead,
Dealing
with the cold, the mud and little sun,
Hoping
not to be caught in a fire-fight,
Trying
to stay alive till it’s over and done.
Back
at home, the picture’s different,
Although
it’s no less of a strain.
The
weather’s cold and always dreary,
There’s
fog and ice and driving rain.
But
the harder part is something else,
Reading
reports in the daily paper,
Hearing
of recent enemy actions,
Dear
God, this War’s no jolly caper.
Life
must go on, keeping things together,
Maintaining
home, things of that kind,
Wondering
what’s happening out in France -
It’s
always hard on those left behind.
The
not knowing works upon the nerves,
Never
hearing anything that’s clear,
Always
imagining the very worst,
Ever
feeling that dreadful, creeping fear.
She
wants for all of it to be over,
She
longs to lead a normal life.
It’s
so hard to keep up the bravest face,
But
she knows her man looks to his wife.
She’s
the commander of the Home Front,
Doing
her bit, doing her own share.
He
needs something to come home to,
And
it’s her job to make sure that it’s there.
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