There you were in Church Street, at No 65,
an Easter bride in 1914.
And so you were in August of that year
when war broke out and Charlie went to France.
We know because the records show you there
that day he fell at Arras, in August 1916.
But then you seem to disappear, an absence unexplained,
as directories and polling lists show 65 unoccupied
though Charlie’s marked as absent in ’18,
as if they did not know he was two years dead.
And I wonder where you are as I scan these lists ,
wondering where a young widow goes
if not with family or at home,
with a lad that would never know his dad.
Then, in 1920 you return.
And I realise that you are thirty now and have the vote,
that you were always in that house that was never empty at all
but echoing with little Charlie’s gargling as he dandled on your lap;
and little rooms were filled with lullabies and laughter.