Great-great-great-uncle Francis Eggington
came back from the Russian War
(it was the kind of war you came back from,
if you were lucky: bad, but over).
He didn’t come to the front door –
the lice and filth were falling off him –
he slipped along the alley to the yard.
‘Who’s that out at the pump?’ they said
‘- a tall tramp stripping his rags off!’
The soap was where it usually was.
He scrubbed and splashed and scrubbed
and combed his beard over the hole in his throat.
‘Give me some clothes,’ he said. ‘I’m back.’
‘God save us, Frank, it’s you!’ they said.
‘What happened? Were you at Scutari?
And what’s that hole inside your beard?’
‘Tea first,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you later.
And Willie’s children will tell their grandchildren;
I’ll be a thing called oral history.’
The Russian War
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