War medals

WAR MEDALS

The medals hang in a glass picture frame on the wall,

Silent witnesses: the Africa star, the Italy star ...

While he was alive, Dad kept them shut away

In a suitcase with old photos and Mum’s wedding dress.

He didn’t brag about them, wasn’t proud,

Didn’t turn them over in his hands, recall the deeds

They were awarded for but felt bitter they got nothing for Dunkirk,

Were not considered heroes for surviving that debacle

When, by a miracle of fate, he escaped death.

I sometimes wish I’d asked him about those medals

That Mum has hung on the wall below their wedding photo.

But who would want to recall such things?

How could such a gentle man carry the horror

Of what he’d known shut up inside his head

Like those medals in their box?

They’re harmless now, wiped clean of memories

And bitterness alike, invested with a new significance

And pride. A relic and a testimony to just one part

Of a full and complex life, they hang there

Below the portrait of the handsome smiling man

Bearing his new bride on his arm more proudly

Than he ever would have worn his war medals.