Welcome Home George

In large white paint on the side of the brick end terrace –
‘WELCOME HOME GEORGE’.
I walked past on the way home from school;
the meadows way through Judkins Quarry
where the rundown block of four stood
next to cement dust, noise and industry.

I invented who George was, imagined where he’d been.
In winter I stopped to throw snowballs at the ‘O’s.
Later I was told that he was a private soldier in WWI.
His family hadn’t a lot, but George was returning
to a place where he was missed, was loved.
Dad didn’t know if George actually made it home.

Driving that way years later it was the last thing
I looked for when leaving Nuneaton for good.
The houses had been demolished – quarry extension.
What a perfect memorial to the ordinary, the unsung,
it would have made. So many Georges didn’t make it.

War Memorial

At the war memorial
on Remembrance Sunday,
the only confrontation –
a loud poppy
on a silent man.