Church bells rang across the land signaling the end of more than four years of war.
They had not rung since the war’s start and the relief felt in the beauty of their sound
was reason alone to rejoice.
The breaking of the silence was a new start. They told young women their
sweethearts were coming home, and mothers and fathers that their sons would be
with them once more; and permanently this time.
These returners would be able to wake up in a dry, warm bed again and get on the
train to go to work. Not wake anymore in a muddy trench wreaking of death with
flying bullets the only prospect ahead of them. Now every one would become a hero
and get medals for his chest. War could become but a memory. At long last blown
out by itself.
For Mrs Owen, in her bubble of a house, the bells appear as if in another land. Like
so many, war has kidnapped a son and will send a dead man’s penny and a note
from the King as thanks. In her ears the bells are flat and tinny, tuneless and dull.
The end for her not just too late but bitterly close. Wilfred left behind lifeless, with
friends and foes alike, mixed with the earth by death’s great scythe.
She feels the old lie’s sting as tears roll down her cheeks. Nothing sweet nor fitting
could be seen in her boy’s death. Only emptiness, decay and loss.
They had not rung since the war’s start and the relief felt in the beauty of their sound
was reason alone to rejoice.
The breaking of the silence was a new start. They told young women their
sweethearts were coming home, and mothers and fathers that their sons would be
with them once more; and permanently this time.
These returners would be able to wake up in a dry, warm bed again and get on the
train to go to work. Not wake anymore in a muddy trench wreaking of death with
flying bullets the only prospect ahead of them. Now every one would become a hero
and get medals for his chest. War could become but a memory. At long last blown
out by itself.
For Mrs Owen, in her bubble of a house, the bells appear as if in another land. Like
so many, war has kidnapped a son and will send a dead man’s penny and a note
from the King as thanks. In her ears the bells are flat and tinny, tuneless and dull.
The end for her not just too late but bitterly close. Wilfred left behind lifeless, with
friends and foes alike, mixed with the earth by death’s great scythe.
She feels the old lie’s sting as tears roll down her cheeks. Nothing sweet nor fitting
could be seen in her boy’s death. Only emptiness, decay and loss.
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