“The Sands That Seperate”
The sun hangs low over fiery sand,
The burn from the metal while on patrol in my hand,
I realize I’m worlds away from Riverlands,
I hold a picture in my hand.
While all the world around me is still.
The letters from mail call arrive,
With scribbled suns and messy names,
The fuel that keeps the soul alive
Amidst the smoke and hungry flames.
I see you in the sudden light—
A ghost of lace and golden hair,
Not here within this fiery light,
But breathing in the backyard air.
I count the days in empty brass,
And long to trade this iron weight.
To feel the dew on summer grass
And swing upon the garden gate.
To hear your laughter, bright and clear,
To lift you high and hold you fast,
To whisper softly in your ear:
Your soldier’s home, sweet girl, at last.
RoseWattleWriting 