![\"You](\"http:\/\/writer-insighter.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/05\/BriefEncounter-TrainWindow.jpg\")
<\/a>Before The War<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Before the war in our hearts<\/p>\n
We kissed on the platform.<\/p>\n
The guard blew his whistle.<\/p>\n
Wooden doors slammed shut<\/p>\n
Minding our fingers.<\/p>\n
My hand on your waist.<\/p>\n
Your fingers on my shoulder.<\/p>\n
Remembering other times<\/p>\n
And our hands and hearts<\/p>\n
And when I remember that now<\/p>\n
I know it didn\u2019t happen.<\/p>\n
There were no steam trains<\/p>\n
Long before you were born.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t wear a hat or a British Warm.<\/p>\n
You didn\u2019t wear an A line skirt<\/p>\n
And a long woollen coat<\/p>\n
And we weren\u2019t afraid of babies.<\/p>\n
There were plenty of things<\/p>\n
We were afraid of<\/p>\n
But not that. And we didn\u2019t talk<\/p>\n
About them anyway, so it didn\u2019t matter.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t as if they could get in the way.<\/p>\n
There were no cheery porters<\/p>\n
Carrying our bags for a tanner tip.<\/p>\n
\u2018Blimey, thanks guvnor,<\/p>\n
You\u2019re a gent and no mistake.\u2019<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t ever that way in our lives.<\/p>\n
Django Reinhardt didn\u2019t play as our Blue Train<\/p>\n
Wheeled down to the Cornish Riviera<\/p>\n
We didn’t take the Boat Train to the Continent<\/p>\n
Via Harwich, tapping our feet in memory<\/p>\n
Of Sidney Bechet on clarinet at the Trocadero<\/p>\n
The night before; via all the places<\/p>\n
Where once other heroes queued in line<\/p>\n
Embarking or demobbed, waiting patiently<\/p>\n
For their lives to begin again,<\/p>\n
The ones that could.<\/p>\n
So why do I remember it this way?<\/p>\n
You\u2019re still here. We are, maybe.<\/p>\n
Who is it talking to me?<\/p>\n
Why do I seem to see a woman’s face as if in fog<\/p>\n
Sometimes until I look again<\/p>\n
And there’s no-one there?<\/p>\n
There never was.<\/p>\n
Who is it calling to me, telling me be nice<\/p>\n
It doesn\u2019t matter, nothing does?<\/p>\n
Only love. Take care.<\/p>\n
Make love, take love while it\u2019s there.<\/p>\n
Call the ceasefire.<\/p>\n
Agree terms, an honourable peace,<\/p>\n
Even unconditional surrender<\/p>\n
If you mean it. But stop the fighting.<\/p>\n
Put up your bright swords<\/p>\n
Put down your arms<\/p>\n
Put your fingers on each other’s lips<\/p>\n
And kiss. Do it now.<\/p>\n
While your hearts are still bare.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
(c) Carl Bennett 2014<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Just to clarify, no, I haven’t had a massive bust-up with anybody. Quite the opposite. This is a poem. It’s a first take, down in one like a Saturday night cocktail. It probably needs a bit of tweaking. But like any fiction, while it might call to you and I hope it does it isn’t real. But as the other Bladerunner said right at the end of the film, then again, what is?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n