The Home Front

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.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017