THE GHOST OF THE PAST

To Brian Aldiss(1925-2017)

He is here;

I hear his

rasping breath,

how he struggles

to fill his punctured lungs.

I turn in my chair,

and amidst all that is unclear to my

old eyes

he stands there

in his bloodied, dirty uniform

with bloody bubbles of air on his lips.

His gaze

is the same as it was

on that day in 1944.

It asks

'Why?',

it pleads

'Help me.'

Like then

I turn around

and like I put away my

rifle with its bayonet

on that day in Burma

I put away my

pen and wait,

wait for the rasping breath

to end,

for the last gasp -

for the hand

that one day

shall touch my shoulder

and the voice

that will say

in language all understand:

'Come.'