My Father sat on the cold iron bench, And I saw in his eyes the cloud of thought. I climbed on his lap rather clumsily And poked a short finger in the centre Of the blood red flower on his chest. Then I asked him, “Pa, what does it mean?” He paused a moment, then forcing a smile, Said, “It means you are free, my boy.” Then turning away, “It means you are free.” His eyes looked strange to me then, and I watched As they searched through the cold empty air. I could not see the battle that raged Or the dead that lay in the wide wasteland. I could not hear the cries in the air. But my Father could, and the tears now ran. I tried, naively, to wipe them away, But he’d seen men die on that ridge called Vimy And gone through the fields of blood and war. He’d seen men and boys, fall in great number. I never knew the price that was paid, ‘Til after Pa was gone and I had grown. And then I sat, on the old iron bench As my child poked at the poppy I wore. He asked me too “Dad, what does it mean?” In the cold air, I saw what my dad had seen; The battles that raged, the life that was spilled. I thought back to the words that he said, And the peace we allowed to slip from our grasp. Dear God! It can’t ever happen again! He must learn from our experience, not his! “It means you are free, my boy,” I said. And I kissed him.  “I’ll tell you why you are free…”       ~by Jennifer Maxine Lloyd   [Home] [About] [Contact Us] [Poetry] [My Poetry] [Featured Poem] [User Poems] [Three Poems] [Events] [Guidelines] [Legal]