Remembrance

As I grew up I heard many stories of women who lost their men in the first World War and how they suffered.  My aunt lost her "young man".  She never spoke of it and she never married. There was no one to marry; a generation had been lost.  But the women who had it hardest were the widows of the "other ranks;" called discably, common soldiers. They were the incredible women who were left with children to care for but little or no support.  This poem is for them.

And we the women left
Make lives for ourselves.
Brave women we,
The women left.
Like flotsam on a stony shore,
We shouldn't be here.
Discarded parts!
Our seasoned wood
Has gone beyond its season.
But still we scrub and clean
And make our knuckles raw
With all their dirty laundry.
If not, who'll feed our kids?
Brave women, we
The women left.