The letter-box clatters; a rallying call,

Down the hallway; feet in a rush,

And fingers shuffle the latest pack,

Whilst frantic eyes scan for familiar scrawl.

Not this day; no ink moulded by you,

Only print and script from those safe

At home, and out of harms way

But who nevertheless have work to do.

So back to torment formed of endless fear

Of hearing no clatter, no rattling of flap;

Just the Devil’s fist sounding, on our front door,

His joy at our plight - his gleeful sneer.

Not every day carries so dark a cloud;

Once, twice, sometimes thrice a month

The latest pack carries heavenly news;

You’re safe and well and doing us proud.

A few hours of peace then darkness again;

How many days since written? What’s done

On journey betwixt front and home?

How much longer before driven insane?

© John Sales 2009