Cuttings and old photographs
inside a passé cookie tin
in my loft collecting dust 
her treasure hidden within.
A dog-eared brown envelope 
held a poppy laying bare
fastened with a yellow ribbon
tendered with loving care.

For 50 years it was unread

what she'd said in written word

as a child I'll always remember 
emotions that journal stirred.
Tied together by sisal twine
in a bristly autumn-cloth
sweet scented with petrichor oil
to protect from hungry moths.

With gauche clumsy fingers
words begged to be set free
spilling happiness and sorrow
its heart poured out to me.
Ink screamed from its pages 
idioms written across each wall
oceans of tears inside each one
that could fill up Carnegie hall.

They were penned by my Nana
as of yet had not been seen 
a love story of war and peace
starting way back in her teens.
She spoke about my Grandpa 
how he was her 'special swan'
enlisted into the US Marines
when he was just twenty one.

Stationed in Northern France
before he could yet unpack 
they came under relentless fire
from the Ted's brutal attack.
It was on that Normandy beach
that he bid his last farewell
told a buddy to say ‘he loved her’
his last words before he fell.

It happened on the 6th June
in the year nineteen forty four
they gave their lives for freedom 
the shining light in a sunless war.
Nana finished with one last note
scribbling a thanksgiving prayer 
on Memorial Day every year
a red poppy she'd always wear.