Loss

Tall trees like artists' brushes on the moist,
Cold morning, when it's no more really spring
But far from summer yet, and when the grey
Clouds veil the countryside in sprays of fine,
Thin drizzle, towering above a clump
Of buildings. From the courtyard of the tall
Old farmhouse the last jeep had gone; the ground
Was ploughed by churning wheels and on the path
That led up to the road there were the marks
Of caterpillar tracks. The farm had housed
A small detachment of the foreign force –
The enemy – and staring wistfully
A girl stood at an attic window. She
Had found the soldiers courteous, distant, grave
And undemanding. They had left them all
Unscathed – and one of them would often come
And sit down in the kitchen, smiling at
A face that looked like home. He had been young,
And dark, and quite attractive. She had felt
Confused but happy, even though she knew
They'd never talk or touch, and so she had
Kept her own counsel. She could never speak
About her feelings. Who would understand
The vision that she'd seen behinds those eyes,
The echo that his face had stirred? The sky
Had looked much brighter while they had been there –
Now his departure seemed to dull the air
As she stood watching, through a sheet of rain,
The flight of him she wouldn't see again.