War is eternal; so is a mother's love.

Son, come home.
A plaintive cry, from the heart;
Don't leave me now, I'm ageing fast,
My life has flown, I cannot last —
And yet we still must part?

Mother, I must go!
A statement laced with pride;
My duty's clear, my own will mute.
By God's decree I wear a khaki suit —
From Him I cannot hide.

Son, please come home.
Words penned by a feeble hand;
Without you near I can't go on,
Come back before my life is gone,
And my last journey planned.

Dear Mother, I cannot come.
A note scribbled with speed;
Today we leave for far-off lands,
Tomorrow will see me on desert sands,
Your call I cannot heed.

Brother, come home.
A tear-stained letter this;
Mother calls for you, weaker, in pain,
For her sake, come home again?
Below she sends a kiss.

Sister dear, God knows I would.
The paper creased and tattered;
But the enemy comes, with planes and guns,
And our army is broken, scattered.

Dear Sir, come home.
A solicitor's letter typed neat;
I regret, Dear Sir, your mother died,
She pined for you, she cried,
And her heart just ceased to beat.

Sir, it is with deep regret...
The sentence, monotonous drone;
This mother's son died at the hands of the foe,
His comrades reported his last words below —
Mother, I'm coming home.

© Frank Swales