January 2018
Neil Creighton
dinecreighton@gmail.com
dinecreighton@gmail.com
My Dad came from Lismore, a little town in the far north coast of NSW, Australia. He was a volunteer for WW 2 and was seconded to the RAF, where he served in Coastal Command, firstly in Gibraltar and then in the UK. In 1964, when I was 16, he became very ill and although he lived for another 17 years, he never really recovered. He blamed the illness on the war and eventually he was declared TPI (totally and permanently incapacitated). He suffered a great deal, physically, emotionally and psychologically. In fact, we all did.
Honour.
Looking at you in that photo
you seem so happy,
smiling that charming smile,
your image in black and white
for your young wife and child
on the other side of the world,
even though in the background
are the propellers of the war-machine
in which you set out into danger
night after freezing night,
flying over the cold North Sea
or down into the Bay of Biscay.
Looking at you in that photo
I think of the complexity of love,
the chasm between reality and desire,
the razor wire entanglement denying
our bright anticipation for the future.
What did your future bring?
Shrunken lungs, a cocktail of pills, rage
and a terrible, conflicted love for your second son,
the one who could only bend for a little while
before he refused to be like you
and fought against your need to control.
Looking at you in that photo
I am filled with tender sadness.
Scabs disappear, wounds heal,
time brings changed perspective.
I now know that there is nothing
other than love and forgiveness.
Compassion replaces tears and defiance.
You gave me life and held me in your arms
but I have never walked in your shoes.
I never went to war, never suffered from chronic illness,
never was gripped by something darkly horrible
that held tight and would not let go.
Now, looking at you in that photo,
somehow, miraculously,
from the bombed rubble of the past
a younger, happier man emerges.
Is this your true self,
the person you always wanted to be?
What I see is a good young man standing
in front of a Wellington bomber,
trapped in a global nightmare,
far from from home and family,
making a huge sacrifice,
true to the values he holds,
a lovely young man whose smile,
in the midst of daily danger and death,
is now forever fixed in hope.
I have always loved you
and I have certainly wept for you.
Now, finally, I give you honour.
Honour.
Looking at you in that photo
you seem so happy,
smiling that charming smile,
your image in black and white
for your young wife and child
on the other side of the world,
even though in the background
are the propellers of the war-machine
in which you set out into danger
night after freezing night,
flying over the cold North Sea
or down into the Bay of Biscay.
Looking at you in that photo
I think of the complexity of love,
the chasm between reality and desire,
the razor wire entanglement denying
our bright anticipation for the future.
What did your future bring?
Shrunken lungs, a cocktail of pills, rage
and a terrible, conflicted love for your second son,
the one who could only bend for a little while
before he refused to be like you
and fought against your need to control.
Looking at you in that photo
I am filled with tender sadness.
Scabs disappear, wounds heal,
time brings changed perspective.
I now know that there is nothing
other than love and forgiveness.
Compassion replaces tears and defiance.
You gave me life and held me in your arms
but I have never walked in your shoes.
I never went to war, never suffered from chronic illness,
never was gripped by something darkly horrible
that held tight and would not let go.
Now, looking at you in that photo,
somehow, miraculously,
from the bombed rubble of the past
a younger, happier man emerges.
Is this your true self,
the person you always wanted to be?
What I see is a good young man standing
in front of a Wellington bomber,
trapped in a global nightmare,
far from from home and family,
making a huge sacrifice,
true to the values he holds,
a lovely young man whose smile,
in the midst of daily danger and death,
is now forever fixed in hope.
I have always loved you
and I have certainly wept for you.
Now, finally, I give you honour.
© 2018 Neil Creighton
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