WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE: THE THIRD SPACE
WAITING TO BE CALLED *
BY Dianne Ascroft
I longed to be there before the bluebells ' calm hue faded. The river burbling its delight as swallows returned to eaves and byres. But, I vainly waited to be called home.
I longed to be there before the cuckoo ' s call hushed. The fox pursuing the moon through blooming fields and the sun shying from its bed. But, still I waited to be called home.
Now I long to be there as Meadowsweet ' s scent sings in the air. The tall grasses wait for the scythe and hares peer above the rustling cloak. Surely, I must soon be called home.
* This poem was inspired by a letter that Irish war poet Francis Ledwidge wrote to his mother in Slane, County Meath, Ireland in July 1917. As a youth he had wanted to see the world, but almost three years after he left Ireland to enlist in the British army during the First World War, he now longed to return home. He was hoping for leave from his unit, which was long overdue after seven months on active service. In the letter, he said that he may be home again soon and added,“ In fact, I am only waiting to be called home.” His hope was never realised as he died on the 31 st of the same month during the third Battle of Ypres.
13 | NOVEMBER 2017